I  \ 


LIBRARY 

V      OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


33114- 


THE    MUSICAL   BASIS   OF   VERSE 


THE   MUSICAL    BASIS 
OF  VERSE 


A    SCIENTIFIC    STUDY    OF    THE 
PRINCIPLES    OF    POETIC    COMPOSITION 


By  J.  P.  DABNEY 


ITY 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO, 

91  AND  93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

LONDON  AND  BOMBAY 

1901 


HAL 


COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 


All  rights  reserved 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


See  deep  enough  and  you  see  musically. ' ' 

CARLYLE. 


PREFACE 

I  WAS  led  to  the  inception  of  this  work  by  my  recogni- 
tion of  the  need — a  need  felt  grievously  in  my  own  stud- 
ies, but  even  more  in  the  attempt  to  direct  those  of 
others — of  a  working  hypothesis  of  the  Science  of  Verse 
which  should  be  at  once  rational,  coherent,  and  simple — 
such  a  working  hypothesis  as  every  music  student  has 
at  his  right  hand. 

The  study  of  all  the  a  priori  text-books — founded  as 
they  are  upon  a  complicated  system  which  will  not  fit 
our  modern  verse — proved  a  weariness  and  vexation  to 
the  spirit;  for,  from  Puttenham  ("  Arte  of  English 
Poesie,"  1589)  to  our  own  day,  although  there  is  much 
delightful  reading  upon  the  essence  of  verse,  there  is  little 
light  upon  the  paths  of  metre,  but  endless  ignes  fatui.  To 
follow  the  various  disquisitions  of  the  various  metrists  is 
like  wandering  through  a  vast  Daedalian  labyrinth,  wherein, 
if  at  any  time  some  true  clew  seems  to  offer  itself,  it  will 
be  presently  snipped  away  and  another  diametrical  one 
substituted ;  and,  in  the  end,  all  lead  no-whither.  This, 
because  in  every  case  the  supposed  true  way  has  been  an 
artificial  and  arbitrary  one,  not  the  natural  one  founded 
upon  primary  law ;  the  primary  laws  of  verse,  like  those 
of  music,  being  laid  upon  the  bed-rock  of  acoustics. 

The  first  clear  note  of  truth  we  hear  struck  is  from 
Coleridge,  when,  in  his  preface  to  "  Christabel "  (1816), 
he  announced  that  he  had  discovered  a  "  new  principle 
of  versification ;  to  wit,  that  of  accents."  This  declara- 
tion raised  a  storm  of  abusive  criticism  from  the  "  Edin- 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


burgh  Review,"  and  from  other  quarters,  and  there 
the  matter  would  seem  to  have  ended  ;  but  he  had, 
however  elementarily,  made  as  great  a  discovery  as  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  when,  from  a  falling  apple,  he  deduced 
the  law  of  gravitation. 

In  1881  Sidney  Lanier  published  his  brilliant  "  Science 
of  English  Verse,"  this  being  the  first  deliberate  attempt 
to  analyse  verse  upon  its  true  lines;  viz.,  by  musical 
notation.  Lanier's  book  did  not  have  the  revolutionis- 
ing effect  which  the  promulgation  of  so  great  and  radical 
a  principle  should  have  had ;  partly,  perhaps,  because  the 
book  is  somewhat  abstruse  for  the  general  reader,  but  also 
partly,  it  seems  to  me,  because  it  is  not  always  wholly 
logical  with  itself.  Many  of  the  verse-notations,  using 
as  they  do  the  foot-divisions  and  not  the  true  bar-divi- 
sions measured  from  accent  to  accent,  would  seem  to  be 
an  attempt  to  reconcile  quantity  with  accent;  whereas, 
belonging  as  they  do  to  different  periods,  with  their 
differing  metrical  standards,  they  have  no  correlation. 
Also,  I  do  not  comprehend  the  classing  together  of  such 
diverse  verse  as  "  Hamlet's  Soliloquy,"  Poe's  "  Raven," 
and  Tennyson's  "  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  "  as  all  in 
3-beat  measure;  because,  as  I  have  pointed  out  (page 
49),  the  3-beat  rhythm  cannot  exist  without  such  a  pre- 
dominance of  three  notes  (syllables)  to  a  bar  as  shall  give 
the  whole  verse  its  organic  stamp. 

Lanier's  supreme  glory  is  that  he  was  a  pioneer.  Like 
Columbus,  he  plunged  boldly  into  the  unknown  and  dis- 
covered a  new  world;  and  the  world  is  ours,  to  possess 
as  we  will. 

In  the  present  work,  besides  the  exposition  of  primary 
verse-rhythm,  as  illustrated  by  the  bar-measurements  of 
music,  I  have  endeavoured  to  elucidate  a  quality  of  verse 
which  I  have  never  seen  noticed  in  any  work  on  metre ; 


PREFACE  ix 

viz.,  motion,  and  the  dynamic  relation  of  verse-motion  to 
its  theme. 

The  purpose  of  this  book  being  analytic,  and  not  syn- 
thetic ;  dealing  with  the  mechanism  of  verse  rather  than 
with  its  meaning — though  the  two  are  not  wholly  separa- 
ble— I  must  be  exonerated  from  any  intention  of  trench- 
ing upon  the  realm  of  literary  criticism,  except  as  inci- 
dental to  the  exposition  and  development  of  the  logical 
lines  of  my  subject. 

In  all  arts  there  is  the  art  of  the  art  and  the  science  of 
the  art.  The  former  concerns  itself  chiefly  with  the  sub- 
jective genius  of  the  artist ;  the  latter,  with  his  concrete 
expression,  or  method ;  method  being  another  name  for 
universal  law,  and  so  reducible  to  an  exact  science. 

Truth,  wherever  we  find  it,  is  superlatively  simple. 
Through  whatever  channel  we  follow  the  developments 
of  human  thought,  we  shall  find  it  to  be  a  denuding 
process,  a  removing  of  the  dead  husks  which  ignorance 
or  superstition  or  convention  have  folded  about  the 
precious  kernel.  All  true  art  is  at  bottom  unified  and 
concrete;  so  also  the  best  exposition,  or  science,  of  art 
will  be  unified  and  concrete. 

In  this  treatise  upon  the  "  Musical  Basis  of  Verse" 
I  have  endeavoured  to  state,  rationally,  coherently,  and 
simply,  what  seem  to  me  to  be  the  principles  of  verse- 
technique,  these  principles  being,  finally,  purely  a  matter 
of  vibration. 

I  have  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  various 
copyright  owners  who  have  allowed  me  to  use  poems 
and  extracts  in  illustration  of  my  text:  Mrs.  Fields; 
Mrs.  Lanier;  Mr.  John  Lane  (Mr.  William  Watson's 
"  Hymn  to  the  Sea  "  and  "  England,  My  Mother,"  and 
Mr.  Watts  Dunton's  "  The  Sonnet's  Voice");  Messrs. 


X  PREFACE 

Macmillan  &  Co.  (Tennyson,  Arnold,  and  Kingsley); 
Messrs.  A.  &  C.  Black  and  The  Macmillan  Co.  (Mr. 
Symonds's  "Greek  Poets");  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard 
&  Co.,  and  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Permission 
has  also  been  obtained  from  Messrs.  Ellis  &  Elvey 
to  quote  D.  G.  Rossetti's  "  The  Portrait  "  and  "  The 
Wine  of  Circe,"  and  from  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co., 
to  use  extracts  from  copyright  poems  by  Robert 
Browning. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  INHERENT  RELATION  BETWEEN  Music  AND  VERSE    .  i 

II.     THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND 16 

III.  DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION 60 

IV.  MELODY        . 99 

V.     METRIC  FORMS 134 

VI.     HEROICS 189 

VII.     BEAUTY  AND  POWER    . 242 


!TY 


The  Musical  Basis  of  Verse 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  INHERENT  RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND  VERSE, 
HISTORICALLY   CONSIDERED 

IN  the  beginning,  out  of  the  mists  of  Time,  hand  in 
hand,  came  those  twin  sisters  of  Art,  Music  and  Verse. 
Man,  in  the  exuberant  infancy  of  the  race,  instinctively 
danced,  and  as  he  danced  he  sang.  The  rhythm  of  his  lips 
gave  the  rhythm  to  his  foot,  and  the  rhythm  of  his  foot 
gave  the  rhythm  to  his  lips;  the  two  interchangeably 
linked.  Thus  was  the  birth  of  literature  in  music. 

When  we  study  the  history  of  primitive  peoples,  we 
find  that  their  first  instinctive  expression — before  their 
EX  ressionof  c^ose  uni°n  with,  and  sense  of,  the  mystery  of 
primitive  nature  has  been  dulled  by  developing  civilisa- 
tion— is  poetic.  Imagination  dominates  in  all 
nascent  societies,  and  the  first  concrete  expression  of  im- 
agination is  song,  or  more  correctly,  chanting.  It  is  either 
connected  with  religious  rites  or  the  rehearsal  of  the  deeds 
of  local  heroes.  Not  infrequently  this  is  accompanied  by 
dance.  The  ghost-dances,  snake-dances,  and  others,  of 
our  Indian  tribes,  are  instances  in  point  in  our  own  day, 

The  older  races  connected  the  origin  of  music  with 
religion.  Emil  Nauman,  in  his  "  History  of  Music,"  says : 


2  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  In  the  '  Rigveda,'  one  of  the  four  primordial  books  of 
the  Brahmins,  written  in  Sanscrit  and  known  under  the 
oldest  Hindu  name  of  the  '  Vedas,'  there  are  hymns  intended 
songs  for  musjc>  The  existence  of  these  books  is 

supposed  to  date  from  the  year  1500  B.C.  .  .  .  Their 
(the  Hindus')  oldest  songs  are  to  be  found  in  the  '  Vedas/ 
The  sacred  songs  contained  in  these  holy  books  were 
saved  from  destruction  by  being  written  in  verse,  com- 
mitted to  memory  and  chanted — a  custom  common  to 
the  civilised  peoples  of  antiquity.  .  .  .  We  also  meet 
in  India  with  musical  dramas,  the  invention  of  which  is 
attributed  to  the  demi-god  Bharata.  Gitagowinda,  an 
idyllic  musical  drama  of  very  ancient  origin,  which  tells  of 
Krishna's  quarrels  with  the  beautiful  Radha,  consists  of 
the  songs  of  the  two  lovers,  alternating  with  the  chorus 
of  the  friends  of  Radha."  (Book  I.,  chap,  i.) 

Of  the  Phrygians,  Lydians,  and  Phoenicians,  Nauman 
further  says:  "  Amongst  all  these  people  we  find  sculp- 
tured reliefs  and  mural  paintings  of  women  and  maidens 
performing  on  different  instruments,  singers  beating  time 
with  their  hands,  and  dancing  youths  and  maidens  play- 
ing the  tambourine."  (Book  I.,  chap,  ii.) 

Carsten  Niebuhr  notices  "  the  custom  resorted  to  by 
Egyptian  men  and  women — so  often  represented  on 
the  oldest  Egyptian  monuments — of  marking  the  rhyth- 
mical measures  of  their  song  by  clapping  hands  in  the 
absence  of  drums  to  serve  this  purpose."  (Nauman, 
Book  I.,  chap,  ii.) 

But  it  is  when  we  approach  the  high  civilisation  of 
the  Greeks  that  we  find  the  finest  efflorescence  of  the 
unified  arts.  I  cannot  do  better  here  than  to  insert 
some  passages  from  John  Addington  Symonds'  "  Greek 
Poets": 

-"  Casting  a  glance  backward  into  the  remote  shadows 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  3 

of  antiquity,  we  find  that  lyrical  poetry,  like  all  art  in 
Greece,  took  its  origin  in  connection  with  primitive  Na- 
Musicai  ture-worship.  The  song  of  Linus,  referred  to 
rituals  of  by  Homer  in  his  description  of  the  shield  of 
Achilles,  was  a  lament  sun^  by  reapers  for  the 
beautiful  dead  youth  who  symbolised  the  decay  of  sum- 
mer's prime.  In  the  funeral  chant  for  Adonis,  women 
bewailed  the  fleeting  splendour  of  the  spring;  and  Hya- 
cinthus,  loved  and  slain  by  Phcebus,  whom  the  Laconian 
youths  and  maidens  honoured,  was  again  a  type  of  vernal 
loveliness  deflowered.  The  Bacchic  songs  of  alternating 
mirth  and  sadness  which  gave  birth,  through  the  dithy- 
ramb, to  tragedy,  and  through  the  Comus-hymn  to  com- 
edy, marked  the  waxing  and  waning  of  successive  years, 
the  pulses  of  the  heart  of  Nature,  to  which  men  listened 
as  the  months  passed  over  them.  In  their  dim  begin- 
nings these  elements  of  Greek  poetry  are  hardly  to  be 
distinguished  from  the  dirges  and  the  raptures  of  Asiatic 
ceremonial,  in  which  the  dance  and  chant  and  song  were 
mingled  in  a  vague  monotony — generation  after  genera- 
tion expressing  the  same  emotions  according  to  traditions 
handed  down  from  their  forefathers.  But  the  Greek 
genius  was  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  distinguishing, 
differentiating,  vitalising,  what  the  Oriental  nations  left 
hazy  and  confused  and  inert.  Therefore,  with  the  very 
earliest  stirrings  of  conscious  art  in  Greece  we  remark 
a  powerful  specialising  tendency.  Articulation  suc- 
ceeds to  mere  interjectional  utterance.  Separate  forms 
of  music  and  of  metre  are  devoted,  with  the  unerring 
instinct  of  a  truly  aesthetic  race,  to  the  expression  of  the 
several  moods  and  passions  of  the  soul.  An  unconscious 
psychology  leads  by  intuitive  analysis  to  the  creation  of 
distinct  branches  of  composition,  each  accurately  adapted 
to  its  special  purpose.  .  .  .  (Chap,  x.) 


4  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  Lyrical  poetry  in  Greece  was  not  produced,  like 
poetry  in  modern  times,  for  the  student,  by  men  who 

Lyrical  poet-     ^n<^    ^ey  ^aVC   a    taste    ^°r  versifymg-       ^  was 

ry  an  organ-  intimately  intertwined  with  actual  life,  and  was 
so  indispensable  that  every  town  had  its  profes- 
sional poets  and  choruses,  just  as  every  church  in  Europe 
now  has  its  organist  of  greater  or  less  pretension.  .  .  . 
From  Olympus  down  to  the  workshop  or  the  sheepfold, 
from  Jove  and  Apollo  to  the  wandering  mendicant,  every 
rank  and  degree  of  the  Greek  community,  divine  or  hu- 
man, had  its  own  proper  allotment  of  poetical  celebration. 
The  gods  had  their  hymns,  nomes,  paeans,  dithyrambs; 
great  men  had  their  encomia  and  epinikia;  the  votaries 
of  pleasure  their  erotica  and  symposiaca;  the  mourner  his 
threnodia  and  elegies;  the  vine-dresser  had  his  epilenia; 
the  herdsmen  their  bucolica;  even  the  beggar  his  eiresione 
and  chelidonisma.  .  .  .  (Chap,  x.) 

"  Processional  hymns,  or  prosodia,  were  strictly  lyrical. 
They  were  sung  at  solemn  festivals  by  troops  of  men  and 
Processional  maidens  walking,  crowned  with  olive,  myrtle, 
hymns  bay,  or  oleander,  to  the  shrines.  Their  style 
varied  with  the  occasion  and  the  character  of  the  deity 
to  whom  they  were  addressed.  When  Hecuba  led  her 
maidens  in  dire  necessity  to  the  shrine  of  Pallas,  the 
prosodion  was  solemn  and  earnest.  When  Sophocles, 
with  lyre  in  hand,  headed  the  chorus  round  the  trophy  of 
Salamis,  it  was  victorious  and  martial.  If  we  wish  to 
present  to  our  mind  a  picture  of  these  processional  cere- 
monies, we  may  study  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  pre- 
served among  the  Elgin  marbles.  Those  long  lines  of 
maidens  and  young  men, 'with  baskets  in  their  hands, 
with  flowers  and  palm  branches,  with  censers  and  sacred 
emblems,  are  marching  to  the  sound  of  flutes  and  lyres, 
and  to  the  stately  rhythms  of  antiphonal  chanting.  When 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  5 

they  reach  the  altar  of  the  god,  a  halt  is  made ;  the  liba- 
tions are  poured ;  and  now  the  music  changes  to  a 
solemn  and  spondaic  measure1 —  for  the  term  spondaic 
seems  to  be  derived  from  the  fact  that  the  libation  hymn 
was  composed  in  a  grave  and  heavy  metre  of  full 
feet.  .  .  .  (Chap,  x.) 

"  A  special  kind  of  prosodia  were  the  Parthenia,  or 
processional  hymns  of  maidens;  such,  for  example,  as 
the  Athenian  girls  sang  to  Pallas  while  they  climbed  the 
staircase  of  the  Parthenon.  ...  A  fragment  (Bergk, 
p.  842)  only  remains  to  show  what  they  were  like. 

'  No  more,  ye  honey-voiced,  sweet-singing  maidens, 
can  my  limbs  support  me:  oh,  oh,  that  I  were  a  cerylus, 
who  skims  the  flower  of  the  sea  with  halcyons,  of  a  daunt- 
less heart,  the  sea-blue  bird  of  spring!  '  (Chap,  xi) 

Other  lyrical  forms  greatened  into  the  sublime  art  of 
tragedy. 

"It  is  certain  that  tragedy  arose  from  the  choruses 
which  danced  and  sang  in  honor  of  Dionysos.  These 
origin  of  dithyrambs,  as  they  are  called,  were  the  last 
tragedy  form  of  lyric  poetry  to  assume  a  literary  shape. 
This  respectable  and  literary  form  of  dithyramb 
was  early  transplanted  to  Athens,  where,  under  the  hands 
of  Lasos,  it  assumed  so  elaborate  a  mimetic  character  by 
means  of  the  higher  development  of  music  and  dancing 
that  (like  our  ballet)  it  became  almost  a  drama.  .  .  . 

'  There  was  also  a  rustic  and  jovial  dithyramb  com- 
mon among  the  lower  classes  in  the  same  districts,  where 
the  choruses  imitated  the  sports  and  manners  of  Satyrs 
in  attendance  on  the  god."  2 

I  have  dwelt  thus  long  upon  the  poetic  rituals  of  the 

1  Observe  the  interchange  of  poetic  with  musical  terras.  Music,  except 
it  were  one  with  verse,  could  not  be  called  spondaic. 

"MAHAFFY  :  "  Hist,  of  Classical  Greek  Literature,"  vol.  i.,  chap.  xiv. 


6  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

ancients — especially  upon  those  of  the  Hellenes — to  illus- 
trate that,  at  that  period,  not  only  were  music  and  verse 
regarded  as  one,  but  that  in  this  indissoluble  union  they 
formed  an  integral  part  of  the  very  existence  of  men. 
And  while  it  is  true  that  even  among  the  Greeks  music 
was  still  in  swaddling  clothes,  so  to  speak,  being  indeed 
but  the  handmaid  of  poetry,  yet  the  literature  to  which 
it  was  allied  stands  as  the  foundation  structure  for  all 
subsequent  culture.  One  civilisation  moves  upon  an- 
other. We  are  the  heritors  of  the  ages.  The  Greeks 
bestowed  upon  us  in  their  literature  tragic  masterpieces 
which  have  never  been  surpassed;  while  their  singleness 
of  ideal  in  art  and  their  purity  and  elevation  of  style 
serve  as  standards  for  all  time. 

The  revival  of  learning  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries — a  revival  principally  stimulated  by  the  inven- 
The  revival  ^on  °^  Prmtmg — flung  open  to  the  crass  Eu- 
of  learning  ropean  civilisations  a  treasure  of  classic  lore 
which,  in  both  Latin  and  Gothic  minds,  was  to 
be  transmuted  "  into  something  new  and  strange  " — into 
new  living  literatures  for  the  embodiment  of  new  racial 
feeling. 

There  is  no  nobler  vehicle  for  the  expression  of  poetic 

thought  than  is  furnished  by  the  English  language.      If  it 

has  not  that  extreme  liquidity  peculiar  to  the 

language  as     Italian  and    Spanish,   whose   golden    syllables 

averse          seem  to  melt  one  over  another  like  ripples  upon 

medium  rr 

summer  seas,  yet  it  has  a  splendid,  virile  melody 
all  its  own.  It  is  strong,  incisive,  dynamic,  while  its  opu- 
lent vocabulary  places  in  the  hands  of  the  artist  an  in- 
strument of  many  strings,  to  manipulate  at  his  will.  The 
preponderance  of  Anglo-Saxon  monosyllables — which 
may  be  used  either  upon  accented  or  non-accented  beats 
at  the  option  of  the  writer — lends  it  a  peculiar  elasticity, 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  7 

at  the  same  time  permitting  great  possibilities  in  the 
matter  of  terse,  concentrated  utterance. 

Both  the  simplification  and  amplification  of  the  lan- 
guage we  owe  to  the  Norman. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  with  William 
the  Conqueror,  came  in  a  new  era.  He  brought  to  Eng- 
Norman  land  not  only  material  conquest,  but  those  sub- 
invasion.  -  tjer  masteries  of  the  ideal,  to  which,  superim- 
posed upon  the  sturdy  stock  of  rougher  orders,  we  give 
the  name  of  civilisation. 

He  brought  in  his  train  the  flower  of  Norman  knight- 
hood, which,  imbued  as  it  was  with  the  chivalry,  the  mag- 
nificence, the  refinement,  and  the  growing  culture  of  the 
Continent,  speedily  made  itself  felt  as  a  new  power 
throughout  the  land.  In  the  noble  examples  of  archi- 
tecture, which  even  to-day  endure,  the  Normans  left  a 
lasting  monument  to  the  zeal  and  taste  of  that  vital 
period. 

But  even  more  revolutionising  was  their  influence  upon 
manners,  social  customs,  literature,  and  speech. 

The  revolution  extended  to  the  vernacular.  The  con- 
querors failed  to  impose  their  own  language  upon  the  con- 
quered, but  they  so  modified  the  parent  stock 
influence  which  they  received,  and  so  infused  it  with 
oniitera-  words  of  Latin  origin,  that  they  made  of  it 

ture 

a  new  language ;  made,  in  fact,  out  of  Anglo- 
Saxon,  English.  The  Norman  palate  revolted  at  the 
Teutonic  guttural,  and,  although  we  still  retain  traces  of 
its  spelling  in  such  words  as  rough,  plough,  cough,  the 
Teutonic  guttural  was  discarded.  The  freer  Norman 
brain  also  refused  to  burden  itself  with  a  cumbersome 
system  of  inflection ;  and  the  inflection  vanished  from 
the  forming  speech.  But  the  crowning  lingual  achieve- 
ment of  the  Normans  was  the  substitution  in  verse  of  true 


8  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

rhyme  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  alliteration ;  that  is,  of  end- 
rhyme  for  head-rhyme.1  This,  and  the  enriching  of  the 
language  with  many  resonant,  polysyllabic  words  of 
Latin  and  Greek  origin,  which  make  a  splendid  foil  for 
the  treasury  of  inflection-freed  monosyllables,  rendered 
the  fruition  of  a  new  literature  possible. 

English  literature  may  be  said  to  begin  with  Geoffrey 
Chaucer.  Language,  in  the  infancy  of  nations,  is  always 
Geoffrey  more  or  less  fluid,  until  a  master-hand  arises  to 
Chaucer  the  crystallise  it  into  literature,  and  so  bring  it  from 
English  the  realm  of  the  primitive  to  that  of  the  civil- 
literature  ised.  Such  a  master  was  Chaucer.  He  was 
courtier,  traveller,  scholar,  artist.  In  his  diplomatic 
journeys  to  Italy  (1372,  '74,  and  '78)  he  came  directly 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  great  Italian  literatures. 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  became  his  teachers.  From 
one  he  doubtless  learned  the  value  of  exquisite  work- 
manship; from  another  how  to  tell  a  story  in  perfect 
form.  Chaucer  was  preeminently  a  great  artist;  one 
whose  mind  is  an  alembic  in  which  all  things  are,  by  the 
magic  of  genius,  dissolved,  to  be  precipitated  into  divine, 
new  creations.  He  imbibed  the  spirit  of  the  Italian 
revival,  but  did  not  become  a  servile  imitator  of  it.  He 
did  not  give  us  sonnet  cycles,  but  instead,  "  The  Canter- 
bury Tales," — in  which  "  the  tale  and  the  verse  go  to- 
gether like  voice  and  music," — "  The  Legende  of  Good 
Women,"  and  "  The  Compleynte  of  Venus." 

The  ten-syllabled  couplet,  which  he  seems  to  have 
been  the  first  to  use,  set  the  model  of  form  which  epic 

1  Earlier  sporadic  instances  of  end-rhyme  existed,  inspired  doubtless  by 
monkish  influence  ;  Latin  verse  having  at  a  very  early  period  attained  to 
great  perfection  in  rhyme.  Lanier  mentions  ("  Science  of  English  Verse") 
an  Anglo-Saxon  poem  with  rudimentary  end-line  rhymes.  Also  a  rhymed 
poem  in  Latin  by  an  Anglo-Saxon  poet. 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  9 

or  narrative  verse  was  to  wear  for  many  generations;  and 
which,  shorn  of  its  rhyme,  it  wears  as  blank  verse  to-day. 

"  Thou  wert  acquainted  with  Chaucer  !  Pardie, 
God  save  his  soul, 
The  first  finder  of  our  faire  language," 

rhapsodises  Occleve. 

The  times  which  follow  Chaucer  are  not  prolific  of 
great  names  until  we  approach  that  truly  Periclean  age 
of  art,  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  But  the  forces  were,  nev- 
ertheless, gathering.  Along  the  way  we  find  as  guide- 
lights  Occleve,  Mallory,  Caxton,  Shelton,  Wyatt,  Surrey; 
and,  shining  with  an  ever-increasing  refulgence,  Sackville, 
Lely,  Sidney,  Spenser,  Bacon,  Marlowe;  until,  from  the 
summit,  flames  forth  the  deathless  beacon  reared  by 
Shakespeare. 

In  spite  of  the  dictum  of  a  prominent  English  writer 
upon  music  (H.  R.  Haweis)  that  the  English  are  not  a 
The  En  iish  mus^cal  people,  they  have  from  time  imme- 
loversof  morial  been  ardent  lovers  of  song;  and  "  the 
songs  of  a  nation,"  says  Lowell,  "  are  like  wild 
flowers  pressed  between  the  blood-stained  pages  of  his- 
tory. The  Infinite  sends  its  messages  to  us  by  untutored 
spirits,  and  the  lips  of  little  children,  and  the  unboastful 
beauty  of  simple  nature." 

Byrd,  in  his"  Preface  to  Psalms,  Sonnets,  and  Songs," 
quaintly  says: 

'  There  is  not  any  musike  of  instruments  whatever 
comparable  to  that  which  is  made  by  the  voyces  of  men ; 
where  the  voyces  are  good,  and  the  same  well-sorted  and 
ordered." 

Among  the  Anglo-Saxons,  as  well  as  among  the  Celtic 
and  other  northern  races  of  Europe,  the  harp  seems  to 
have  been  the  instrument  mostly  in  use,  of  course  as 


10  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

accompaniment  to  the  chant,  recitation,  or  song.  '  The 
minstrels,"  says  Percy,  "  were  the  successors  of  the  an- 
cient bards,  who,  under  different  names,  were  admired  and 
revered  from  the  earliest  ages  among  the  people  of  Gaul, 
Britain,  Ireland,  and  the  North;  and  indeed  by  almost 
all  the  first  inhabitants  of  Europe,  whether  of  Celtic  or 
Gothic  race;  but  by  none  more  than  by  our  own  Teu- 
tonic ancestors,  particularly  by  all  the  Danish  tribes. 
Among  these  they  were  distinguished  by  the  name 
Scalds,  a  word  which  denotes  '  smoothers  and  polishers 
of  language.'  ' 

We  are  told  that  to  possess  a  harp  was  the  first  re- 
quirement of  a  Norman  gentleman,  and  to  be  able  to 
perform  upon  it  indispensable  to  his  pretensions  to  gen- 
tility. Chaucer  mentions  in  his  poems  a  great  number 
of  musical  instruments,  evidence  that  the  development 
of  music  kept  pace  with  that  of  literature. 

When  we  reach  the  days  of  the  Tudors  we  find  music 
in  a  very  advanced  stage.  Erasmus  says  of  the  people 
of  England:  "  They  challenge  the  prerogative  of  having 
the  most  handsome  women,  of  keeping  the  best  table, 
and  of  being  the  most  accomplished  in  the  skill  of  music 
of  any  people."  l  We  read  of  "  madrigals,  ballets  (bal- 
lads), and  canzonets." 

"  The  ballad  and  dance-tune,"  says  Ritter,  "  comple- 
mented each  other  from  the  very  start  (of  English  civili- 
sation) and  have  remained  inseparable  companions." 

In  Elizabeth's  time  we  find  the  names  of  such  com- 
posers as  Tye,  Marbeck,  Tallis,  Byrd,  Morley,  etc. ;  but, 
Music  in  the*  before  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  contrapuntal 
time  of  composition  was  well  advanced..  The  favourite 

Elizabeth  madngal—' '  the  light-footed  English  madri- 
gal," Ritter  calls  it — seems  to  have  been  quite  an  elabo- 
1  RITTER  :  "  Music  in  England,"  chap.  ii. 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  n 

rate  affair  in  several  parts.  The  well-known  and  quaintly 
charming  "  Sumer  is  icumen  in,"  a  canon  or  "  rota"  as 
it  is  called,  was  written  as  early  as  1223. 

But  what  concerns  us  more  than  any  contrapuntal 
developments  is  the  fact  that  society  in  the  English 
Periclean  age  was  simply  saturated  with  musical  feel- 
ing— that  musical  feeling  which  comes  of  freedom, 
gayety,  and  living  close  to  nature.  The  people  of 
that  day  were  not  the  sombre,  soul-burdened  people 
of  post-Revolution  times,  but  a  careless,  light-hearted 
race,  true  children  of  the  Renaissance.  There  existed 
a  veritable  joie  de  vivre,  and  the  universal  joyousness 
rippled,  like  the  joyousness  of  birds,  spontaneously  into 
song. 

"  In  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  not  only  was  music  a  quali- 
fication for  ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  even  the  city  of 
London  advertised  the  musical  abilities  of  boys  educated 
in  Bridewell  and  Christ's  Hospital,  as  a  mode  of  recom- 
mending them  as  servants,  apprentices,  and  husbandmen. 
Tinkers  sung  catches;  milkmaids  sung  ballads;  carters 
whistled;  each  trade,  and  even  beggars,  had  their  spe- 
cial songs.  The  bass  viol  hung  in  the  drawing-room  for 
the  amusement  of  waiting  visitors;  and  the  lute,  cithern, 
and  virginals,  for  the  amusement  of  waiting  customers, 
were  the  necessary  furniture  of  the  barber  shop.  They 
had  music  at  dinner,  music  at  supper,  music  at  weddings, 
music  at  funerals,  music  at  night,  music  at  dawn,  music 
at  work,  music  at  play.  He  who  felt  not  in  some  degree 
its  soothing  influence  was  viewed  as  a  morose,  unmusical 
being  whose  converse  ought  to  be  shunned  and  regarded 
with  suspicion  and  distrust."1 

1  CHAPPELL  :  "  Popular  Music  of  the  Olden  Times,"  vol.  i.,  chap.  iii. 
The  reader  will  trace  in  the  foregoing  an  analogy  between  these  times  of 
rich  mental  harvest  and  the  lyric  days  of  Greece. 


12  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

"  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on ; 
Give  me  excess  of  it,  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken  and  so  die. 
That  strain  again ;  it  had  a  dying  fall : 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odour  !  " 

Shakespeare  makes  the  duke  sigh  in  "  Twelfth  Night." 

In  Shakespeare  the  sense  of  union  between  music  and 
verse  reaches  its  finest  flower.  He  was  its  arch-priest. 
His  heart  beat  to  the  universal  rhythms.  This  is 
speare's  evidenced  by  his  spontaneity  and  daring  in  the 
sense  of  management  of  blank  verse,  which  in  his  hands 
attained  a  freedom  of  movement  not  reached  by 
any  other  writer.  It  is  evidenced  by  his  mastery  of  all 
the  melodic  and  metrical  resources  of  his  medium ;  for  he 
was  supreme  in  every  metric  device  by  which  verse  may 
be  varied  and  enriched,  and  he  employed  methods  which 
in  less  consummate  hands  might  easily  be  productive  of 
a  chaos  of  mere  chopped  prose,  but  which,  in  the  hands 
of  the  master,  become  a  complex  and  wonderful  instru- 
ment whence  issue  immortal  strains  of  power  and  beauty. 
His  perfect  musical  ear  is  even  more  demonstrated  in 
the  little  lyric  flights  scattered  throughout  the  dramas. 
We  have  no  songs  more  spontaneous,  or'  instinct  with 
music,  than  "  Hark,  hark,  the  lark,"  "  Who  is  Silvia?" 
"  O  come  unto  these  yellow  sands,"  "  Come  away, 
come  away,  Death,"  and  a  host  of  others.  They  seem 
literally  to  sing  themselves.  In  some  indeed  the  joyous 
lilt  loses  itself,  for  very  wanton  gladness,  in  a  mere  inar- 
ticulate ripple.  As 

"  It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  13 

That  through  the  green  cornfields  did  pass 
In  the  spring-time,  the  only  pretty  ring-time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring." 

The  high-water  mark  of  the  verse  of  this  epoch  is  also 
the  high-water  mark  of  music. 

From  Shakespeare  on  we  have  to  note  a  steady  deca- 
dence. It  is  true  that  we  catch  Shakespearean  echoes 
Decadence  *n  ^e  verse  °f  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
after  Campion,  Wither,  Carew,  Herrick,  Suckling, 

Shakespeare  Lovelace>  Waller,  and  others;  but  these  dwin- 
dle with  the  perspective  until,  by  the  time  of  the  Restora- 
tion, the  English  Muse  was  virtually  moribund.  It  is  a 
far  cry  from 

"  Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair," 

to  the  formal  rhymed  couplet  of  Dryden's  day,  "  when 
men  wrote  in  measured  thuds,  by  rule." 

"  How  was  it,"  asks  a  writer,1  "  that  a  people  could 
lose  its  ear  during  a  century  and  a  half,  as  if  a  violinist 
should  suddenly  prefer  a  tom-tom  to  his  violin? " 

The  causes  of  this  prolonged  decadence  are  two-fold. 
In  the  inevitable  barren  periods  which  always  follow 
epochs  of  great  productivity — the  fallow  seasons  of  nature 
—the  light  of  inspiration  faded,  and  a  cold  formalism  fell 
upon  art.  Men  reverted  to  a  meaningless  classicism,  and 
enveloped  verse  in  conventional  fetters  as  inexorable  as 
the  tentacjes  of  an  octopus.  But  it  is  even  more  due  to 
the  great  parliamentary  and  religious  struggles  which 
began  with  the  Stuarts.  The  domination  of  the  Com- 
monwealth sealed  the  fate  both  of  music  and  poetry. 
The  Puritans,  confounding  music  with  popery,  looked 
1  WILLIAM  R.  THAYER  :  "  Review  of  Reviews,"  October,  1894. 


I4  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

upon  it  as  the  work  of  the  demon,  an  art  of  Antichrist,  a 
sacrilege  not  to  be  tolerated.  Nothing  was  heard  in  the 
land  but  the  droning  of  psalm-tunes.  Artistic  inspira- 
tion perished  beneath  the  heats  of  a  fanaticism  which 
could  not  tolerate  beauty  as  "  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

Surely  never  before  were  the  Muses  subjected  to  such 
a  fury  of  iconoclastic  scourging!  Small  wonder  that  they 
should  clasp  hands  and  retire  from  a  people  who  knew  no 
longer  how  to  appreciate  them  ;  and  perhaps  not  less  that, 
when  wooed  back  by  passion-laden  souls  into  the  splen- 
did Renaissance  with  which  our  own  century  opened, 
there  should  no  longer  be  found  between  them  that  full 
and  spontaneous  union  which  had  before  existed. 

If  we  glance  down  the  vistas  of  history  and  examine 
the  evidences,  we  shall  perceive  one  fact,  that  the  two 
The  arts  of  arts  °f  music  and  poetry  have  always  waxed 
music  and  ancj  waned  together.  A  period  of  great  activ- 

poetry  wax       .  ..... 

and  wane  ity  and  exceptional  merit  in  the  one  has  been 
together  coordinate  with  a  similar  manifestation  in  the 
other.  This  is  not  due  to  accident.  Both  impulses 
spring  from  the  same  inspirational  fountain.  They  are 
different  interpretations  of 

"  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 
That  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise," 

which  Jubal,  far  away  in  the  dawn  of  the  world,  heard ; 

so 

"  That  love,  hope,  rage,  and  all  experience, 
Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 
Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries, 
That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 
Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 
Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man's  brief  age  !  "  l 

1  GEORGE  ELIOT  :  "  The  Legend  of  Jubal." 


RELATION  BETWEEN  MUSIC  AND    VERSE  15 

In  those  epochs  of  virtual  renascence  which  civilisation 
from  time  to  time  experiences — high-tides  of  the  soul, 
Emerson  calls  them — the  minds  of  men  become  electric- 
ally and  rhythmically  charged,  the  outcome  being  the 
music  of  language — poetry — or  the  more  developed  emo- 
tional expression  of  pure  music,  according  to  the  dictates 
of  the  creative  inspiration  of  the  individual.  The  great 
diapason  is  always  the  same;  but  its  vibrations  differ- 
ently impress,  and  are  differently  interpreted  by,  differ- 
entiating genius. 

Thus,  of  two  great  artists  of  our  own  century  whose 
souls  were  steeped  in  poetry — Wagner  and  Hawthorne 
— one  wrote,  not  poems  (for  the  opera  libretti  are  sub- 
sidiary to  the  music  and  would  not  stand  alone  as  litera- 
ture), but  music-dramas;  and  the  other  has  given  us, 
again  not  poems,  but  the  most  ideal  fiction  in  the  lan- 
guage. 

What  inspires  this  differentiation  in  the  expression  of 
the  ideal  we  cannot  know.  We  can  only  be  glad  that  it 
is  so,  and  that  so  great  a  variety  of  medium  in  which  to 
try  its  wings  is  furnished  to  the  human  soul. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  ARTS   OF   SOUND 

"  MAN  did  not  make  the  laws  of  music,  he  only  found 
them  out,"  says  Charles  Kingsley. 

"  For  poetry  was  all  written  before  time  was,  and 
whenever  we  are  so  finely  organised  that  we  can  pene- 
trate into  that  region  where  the  air  is  music,  we  hear 
those  primal  warblings,"  declares  Emerson. 

And  a  little  reflection  makes  us  realise  that  they  were 
saying  the  same  thing;  that  both  men,  as  all  truly 
poetic  souls  must  be,  were  conscious  of  those  elemental 
rhythms — potentially  identical — which  are  developed 
through  the  minds  of  men  into  harmonious  expressions 
of  form  and  sound. 

i  and  Music  and  poetry — poetry  being  indeed  the 

poetry,  arts    music  of  words — are  rhythmic  utterances  of  a 
cognate    order.      In  other  words,   music  and 
poetry  are  arts  of  sound. 1 


1 "  Sound  is  a  vibration.  Sound,  as  directly  known  to  us  by  the  sense  of 
hearing,  is  an  impression  of  a  peculiar  character,  very  broadly  distinguished 
from  the  impressions  received  through  the  rest  of  our  senses,  and  admit- 
ting of  great  variety  in  its  modifications." — J.  D.  EVERETT:  "Natural 
Philosophy  "  ("  Acoustics  "). 

"  Hauptmann,  in  '  Harmony  and  Metre,'  says  :  '  Where  sound  is  to  be 
produced,  there  is  required  an  elastic,  stretched,  uniform  material,  and  a 
trembling  or  vibrating  movement  thereof.  The  parts  of  the  body  moved 
are  then  alternated  in  and  out  of  their  state  of  uniform  cohesion.  The 
instant  of  transition  into  this  state  of  equality  or  inner  unity  is  that  which 
by  our  sense  of  hearing  is  perceived  as  sound.  Sound  is  only  an  element  of 
transition,  from  arising  to  passing  away  of  the  state  of  unity.  Quickly  sue- 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  I7 

Music  —  the  most  abstract  of  the  arts,  and  considered 
by  many  to  be  the  highest  medium  of  emotional  expres- 
sion we  have  —  is  purely  dependent,  for  the  effect  upon 
the  mind,  upon  vibration. 

Poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  is  only  partially  dependent 
upon  vibration. 

The  musician  will  run  his  eye  over  a  written  score,  and 
there  are  instantly  realised  to  his  mental  ear  the  melo- 
dies and  harmonies  there  technically  inscribed;  but  this 
is  because  he  has  already  heard  similar  melodies  and 
chords.  To  a  man  born  deaf,  and  who  is  without  any 
conception  of  sound,  the  same  page  would  be  but  a  pro- 
cession of  meaningless  lines  and  dots.  Let  the  deaf  man, 
however,  read  a  verse  of  poetry,  and  its  intellectual  side 
would  immediately  be  clear  to  him.  Pie  would  compre- 
hend the  meaning  of  the  words;  but  the  acoustic  side, 
the  dynamic  force  of  the  rhythm,  the  melodic  effects  of 
rhyme,  and  all  those  exquisite  nuances  of  colour,  which 
make  of  a  verse  of  poetry  a  great  art,  and  which  are  such 
a  delight  to  the  trained  poetic  ear,  would  be  lost  upon 
him. 

Poetry  is  of  itself  a  species  of  music.  The  merit  of 
true  poetry  lies  largely  in  its  suggestiveness,  a  suggestive- 
Poetr  ness  only  to  ke  fulty  brought  home  by  oral  in- 

be  terpretation. 


Poetry  to  be  fully   interpreted   and    under- 
stood should  be  read  aloud. 

There  are  in  our  language  quantities  of  lyrics  which  one 

ceeding  repetitions  of  this  element  make  the  sound  appear  continuous.'  The 
swing  of  molecules  affords  a  vent  for  the  music  within  the  vibrating  sub- 
stance. Two  hundred  and  sixty-four  swings  per  second  permit  the  music 
hidden  in  a  piano-string  to  escape  in  two  hundred  and  sixty-four  fragments, 
which  when  pieced  into  a  whole  produce  the  tone  C.  As  with  the  steel 
wire,  so  with  the  vocal  cords."  —  HENRY  W.  STRATTON:  "  The  Metaphysics 
of  Music  "  ("  Mind,"  1899). 

2 


1 8  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

cannot  read,  or  hear  read,  without  their  instantly  trans- 
lating themselves  to  music,  and,  so  to  speak,  singing 
themselves.  Who  has  not  had,  at  some  time,  the  expe- 
rience of  hearing,  spiritedly  rendered,  some  poem  with 
which  he  had  before  been  superficially  familiar,  and  has 
experienced  thereupon  a  thrill  of  revelation,  as  if  a  flash- 
light had  suddenly  swept  his  mental  horizon  ?  It  was 
my  own  good  fortune  to  receive  my  first  introduction  to 
Browning's  poems  through  the  medium  of  a  vivid  spirit 
who  not  only  possessed  a  deep  appreciation  of,  and  insight 
into,  them,  but  had  the  rarer  faculty  of  so  interpreting 
them  as  to  render  them  equally  luminous  to  others.  The 
consequence  is,  not  only  that  Browning  has  always  meant 
another  thing  to  me  than  if  I  had  come  to  the  study 
of  him  callow  and  alone,  but  that  to  this  day  I  can  hear 
in  the  poems  then  read  by  this  gifted  teacher  the  ringing 
tones  by  which  they  were  brought  home  to  me ;  and  so 
the  music  of  them  lives  undying  in  my  thought. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand  why  this  oral  interpreta- 
tion of  poetry  is  not  more  studied  and  taught.  To  hear 
noble  poetry  adequately  rendered  is  as  elevating  as  to 
listen  to  great  music,  the  modulations  of  the  voice  infin- 
itely revealing  the  subtler  significance  of  the  words,  as 
well  as  bringing  out  the  full  melodic  effects  of  the  verse. 
But  alas!  even  among  the  well-educated,  good  readers 
are  lamentably  few;  for,  although  we  consider  it  a  sine 
qua  non  that  our  children  should  be  instructed  in  music, 
not  one  is  really  taught  to  read  aloud.  We  should  con- 
sider it  dry  work  if  our  acquaintance  with  music  were 
limited  to  reading  the  scores  to  ourselves;  yet  this  is  the 
silent  part  we  accord  to  verse. 

"  People  do  not  understand  the  music  of  words," 
said  Tennyson.  "  Sound  plays  so  great  a  part  in  the 
meaning  of  all  language."  He.  told  Miss  L —  -  "  to 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  I9 

listen  to  the  sound  of  the  sea  "  in  the  line  from  "  Enoch 
Arden": 

"  The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef." 
Of   Tennyson's    own    reading   of   poetry  Miss    Emily 

Tennyson's      Ritchie  Writes  : 

reading  of  "  Amongst  the  experiences  of  intercourse 
with  him,  nothing  was  more  memorable  than 
to  hear  him  read  his  poetry.  The  roll  of  his  great  voice 
acted  sometimes  almost  like  an  incantation,  so  that  when 
;t  was  a  new  poem  he  was  reading,  the  power  of  realis- 
ing its  actual  nature  was  subordinated  to  the  wonder  at 
the  sound  of  the  tones.  Sometimes,  as  in  '  The  Passing 
of  Arthur,'  it  was  a  long  chant,  in  which  the  expression 
lay  chiefly  in  the  value  given  to  each  syllable,  sometimes 
a  swell  of  sound  like  an  organ's;  often  came  tones  of  in- 
finite pathos,  delicate  and  tender,  then  others  of  mighty 
volume  and  passionate  strength."  * 

When  thus  interpreted,  we  easily  perceive  that  each 
syllable  of  verse  is  really  a  separate  note  of  music; 
not  the  dry  symbol  of  an  arbitrary  system  of  measure- 
ment. 

The  analogy  between  music  and  poetry  has  always  been 
Theanaio  more  or  IGSS  consciously  recognised.  Not  only 
between  are  musical  terms  and  tropes  so  constantly  used 

"oetlV'part.    bv  the  P°ets  tnat  tnev  mav  be  considered  an 
iy  recog-        integral  part  of  verse,  but  the  critics  themselves 
are  continually  driven  to  have  recourse  to  them 
to  elucidate  their  own  meaning. 

Dryden  says  of  Chaucer's  verse  that  "  there  is  the 
rude  sweetness  of  a  Scptch  tune  in  it." 

'  Years,"  says  Symonds,   writing  of  Shelley,  "  filled 
with  music  that  will  sound  as  long  as  English  lasts." 
1  HALLAM,  LORD  TENNYSON  :  "Life  of  Tennyson,"  vol.  ii.,  chap.  iii. 


20  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

'  This  was  a   vocal    year,"   comments   Gosse   in   his 
"Life  of  Gray." 

Saintsbury,  in  an  analysis  of  Dryden's  "  Ode  to  Anne 
Killigrew,"  remarks,  "  As  a  piece  of  concerted  music  in 
verse  it  [the  first  stanza]  has  not  a  superior." 

Instances  might  be  indefinitely  multiplied,  but  these 
suffice  to  evidence  the  real  thought-current — a  current 
so  strong,  so  instinctive,  so  really  incontrovertible,  that 
the  only  marvel  is  that  scholars  have  not  long  since 
abandoned  themselves  to  it,  instead  of  endeavouring 
to  punt  up-stream  in  the  cumbersome  bateaux  of  a  past 
civilisation. 

The  Gothic  genius  derived  its  primary  inspiration  from 
classic  culture,  but  in  no  sense  formulated  itself  techni- 
The  Gothic  cally  upon  the  classics.  The  modern  poet — 
genius  anc]  uncjer  this  term  we  may  include  every- 

thing post-mediaeval — incontinently  discarded  quantity, 
and,  with  an  instinct  truer  and  stronger  than  tradition 
or  theory,  trusted  himself  boldly  to  his  ear.  For,  in  the 
end,  the  ear  is  sole  arbiter.  Even  among  those  lan- 
guages developed  directly  from  the  Latin  we  do  not  find 
any  imitation.  The  "  Divina  Commedia"  of  Dante  and 
the  "  Sonnets  "  of  Petrarch  are  not  derived  from  classic 
prototypes,  but  are  individual  evolutions,  while  nothing 
could  be  freer  than  the  early  Spanish  dramatists. 

The  sense  of  quantity  was  lost  or  discarded  very  early 
in  the  Christian  era.  "  We  are  told  by  Christ  ('  Metrik 
Eari  ^er  Griechen  und  Romer  ')  that  Ritschl  consid- 

discarding  ered  the  mill-song  of  the  Lesbian  women  to  be 
tity  an  early  example  of  accentual  metre  in  Greek. 
.  .  .  In  Latin  the  '  Instructiones '  of  the  barbarous 
Commodianus  (about  the  middle  of  the  third  century)  is 
usually  named  as  the  first  specimen  of  accentual  verse. 
.  .  .  Whatever  may  be  the  date  of  the  earliest  exist- 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  21 

ing  specimen,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  feeling  for 
quantity  had  long  before  died  out  among  all  but  the 
learned  few."  1 

We  may  account  for  this  substitution  of  accentual  for 
quantitative  standards  partly  by  the  decline  of  learning; 
Music  deveu  Dut  ^  seems  to  me  even  better  accounted  for 
oped  with  by  the  fact  that,  at  the  same  time  that  the  art 

poetry  in  . 

medieval  oi  poetry  was  emerging  once  more  from  me- 
Europe  diaeval  night,  music  was  also  undergoing  a 
transformation  of  its  own,  and  emerging,  through  the 
Gregorian  chant  and  the  early  monastic  composers,  into 
an  independent  art.  In  the  cloister  were  being  laid  the 
scientific  corner  stones,2  while,  outside,  the  minnesdnger, 
the  trouvtres,  and  the  troubadours  were  pouring  into  the 
ears  of  the  people  their  wild  and  passionate  lays.  Imbued 
with  this  new  and  vital  sense  of  rhythm,  the  poets  un- 
consciously transferred  the  same  to  their  verse.  It  was 
this  which  imparted  to  the  movement  of  the  Renaissance 
En  Hsh  *ts  splendour.  It  was  not  anv  reproduction  of 
verse  ac-  the  old,  but  literally  a  new  birth. 
not°tolbeged  Considering  the  fact  that  English  verse  is 
quantita=  acknowledgedly  not  quantitative,  the  efforts 
of  scholars  of  all  time  to  prove  it  so  appear, 
to  say  the  least,  herculean.  Each  man  has  a  system  of 
scansion  of  his  own,  opposed  to  every  other  man's;  each 

1  JOSEPH  B.  MAYOR:  "English  Metre"  (Preface,  p.  8). 

2  "  Guido  of  Arezzo  (1020)  and  Franco  of    Cologne  (about  1200 — some 
writers  place  him  much  earlier)  are  the  only  names  worth  mentioning  at 
this  period.     The  labours  of  the  first  culminated  in  the  rise  of  descant,  i.e., 
the  combination  of  sounds  of  unequal  length  ;  or  music  in  which  two  or 
more  sounds  succeed  each  other  while  one  equal  to  them  in  length  was  sus- 
tained.    The  labours  of  Franco  may  be  connected  with  a  better  system  of 
musical  notation,  the  introduction  of  sharps  and  flats,  and  the  cantus  mensu- 
rabilis,  or  division  of  music  into  bars"  — HAWEIS  :   "  Music  and  Morals  " 
(book  ii.,  sec.  i.). 


22  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE       . 

demolishing  the  authority  before  him,  to  have  his  own 
in  turn  overthrown.  It  reminds  one  of  nothing  so  much 
as  the  contests  of  chivalry,  when  no  errant  knight  might 
meet  another  without  putting  lance  in  rest  to  try  which 
was  the  better  man. 

One  English  metrist,  Dr.  Guest,  holds  such  stringent 
ideals  of  metrical  perfection — all  based  upon  quantity — 
English  that  he  would  seem  to  condemn  as  illegitimate 
metrists  a  great  part  of  English  verse.  Another,  Dr. 
Abbott,  would  get  over  the  "  difficulty  of  extra  sylla- 
bles" by  "effects  of  slurring."  Mayor  disposes  sum- 
marily of  a  number  of  his  fellow  metrists,  but  has  only 
a  fresh  pabulum  of  routine  scansion  to  offer.  Some 
of  the  scholars  have  misgivings ;  but  the  fetters  of  tra- 
dition are  hard  to  break.  Mr.  A.  J.  Ellis  asserts  that 
"  the  whole  subject  of  English  metres  requires  investi- 
gation on  the  basis  of  accent."  Yet  he  appears  still  to 
scan  his  verse,  and  superimposes  upon  this  a  system  of 
metrical  analysis  upon  "  force,  length,  pitch,  weight, 
silence,"  subdivided  into  forty-five  different  expression- 
marks  for  each  syllable  to  be  considered !  This  system, 
he  tells  us,  he  has  not  yet  attempted  to  work  out! 
Professor  Sylvester  goes  so  far  as  to  recommend  the 
use  of  "  musical  nomenclature  in  verse,"  but  at  the 
same  time  does  not  use  it,  and  offers  us  a  Daedalian  maze 
of  lockjaw  terminology  which  is  anything  but  musical. 
John  Addington  Symonds  tells  us  that  "  scansion  by 
time  takes  the  place  of  scansion  by  metrical  feet;  the 
bars  of  the  musical  composer,  where  different  values 
from  the  breve  to  the  semi-quaver  find  their  place,  sug- 
gest a  truer  measure  than  the  longs  and  shorts  of  classic 
feet." 

When  we  turn  to  American  teachers  we  find  them 
much  more  radical;  yet,  though  they  discard  the  old, 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  23 

they  have  not  found  their  way  to  the  new,  and  seem  to 
wander,  as  it  were,  in  fog-lands  and  without  solid  ground 
American  under  their  feet — or  at  least  they  place  none 
metrists  under  those  of  the  student.  Professor  Gum- 
mere  has  no  better  way  to  measure  verse  than  by  "  a  suc- 
cession of  stresses. ' '  Professor  Hiram  Corson  also  discards 
classic  traditions  and  uses  for  analysis  of  verse  the  symbols 
XA,  AX,  XX A,  AXX,  XAX,  etc.,  a  colourless  method 
which  conveys  no  rhythmic  impression  to  the  mind. 

It  seems  admitted  by  all  authorities  that  English  verse 
is  accentual  and  not  quantitative;  by  the  most  advanced, 
that  English  verse  will  not  scan ;  furthermore  that  we 
moderns  have  lost  the  feeling  for  quantity.  Whether 
we  have  lost  anything  which  was  worth  the  keeping  I 
leave  others  to  decide;1  but  if  we  have  lost  it,  "  a  God's 
name,"  as  Spenser  says,  let  us  let  it  go.  Let  us  not  try 
to  mete  the  culture  of  one  age  by  the  measuring-tape  of 
another.  Let  us  not  put  new  wine  into  old  bottles. 

Yet,  if  we  discard  the  old,  what  shall  be  substituted  ? 
For  there  must  indubitably  be  a  science,  a  constructive 
principle,  of  verse.  The  laws  exist  whether  we  recognise 
them  or  not.  The  earth  revolved  around  the  sun  before 
Galileo's  momentous  discovery.  The  law  of  gravitation 
flung  apples  to  the  ground  before  Newton  arose  to  give 
that  law  a  name.  So,  through  the  centuries,  the  poets 

1 "  The  distinctive  feature  of  these  poets  (Melic  poets  :  a  term  given  to 
the  lyric  poets  of  Greece)  was  the  necessary  combination  of  music,  and  very 
frequently  of  rhythmical  movement  or  orchestic  with  their  text.  When  this 
dancing  came  into  use,  as  in  the  choral  poetry  of  the  early  Dorian  bards, 
and  of  the  Attic  dramatists,  the  metre  of  the  words  became  so  complex  and 
divided  into  subordinated  rhythmical  periods,  that  Cicero  tells  us  such  poems 
appeared  to  him  like  prose,  since  the  necessary  music  and  figured  dancing 
were  indispensable  to  explain  the  metrical  plan  of  the  poet.  I  have  no  doubt 
many  modern  readers  of  Pindar  will  recognise  the  pertinence  of  this  re- 
mark."— MAHAFFY  :  "  History  of  Greek  Literature,"  vol.  i.,  chap.  x. 


24  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS   OF    VERSE 

have  been  instinctively  singing  in  obedience  to  the  law 
of  musical  rhythms,  although  the  fact  has  not  yet  received 
more  than  a  partial  recognition. 

If  we  adopt  for  verse  the  system  of  musical  notation, 
we  cut  the  Gordian  knot  of  scansion  fairly  in  two.  We 
Adopt  for  should  not  be  forced  to  the  expedient  of  divid- 
versea  jnpr  monosyllables  in  the  middle  in  order  to 

system  of  J 

musical  square  a  verse  of  poetry  with  a  particular  trie- 
notation  ory^  as  Qne  wrjj-er  has  done;  nor  need  we 

tease  our  brains  over  choriambic,  proceleusmatic,  dactyl- 
anap&st,  dactyl-iamb,  antibacchius,  cretic  and  amphibrach  ; 
slurred  iambs,  metrical  metamorphoses,  initial  truncations, 
etc. ;  nor  any  of  the  complicated  machineries  for  smooth- 
ing away  the  so-called  difficulties  of  English  verse. 

The  fact  is  that,  looked  at  "  deep  enough  "  and  "  seen 
musically/'  verse  construction  becomes  a  wonderfully 
simple  matter. 

As  a  vehicle  of  emotional  and  intellectual  expression, 

music  may  be  said  to  begin  where  language  ends.     We 

might  say  that  music  is  thought  expressed  in 

construction   the  abstraction  of  sound  (vibration),  without 

a  simple        ^e  interposition  of  articulate  speech.    Poetry  is 

matter  .  •        •  « 

thought  expressed  in  articulate  speech  without 
any  special  range  in  sound.  Music  is  purely  abstract,  while 
poetry,  in  substance,  may  be  either  abstract  or  concrete. 
Poetry  is  capable  of  placing  a  definite  image  before  the 
mind,  which  music,  spite  of  the  pretensions  of  programme 
music,  cannot  do.1 

1  "  Although  music  is  distinctly  not  a  definite  means  of  qualitative  emo- 
tional expression,  it  is  an  exceedingly  potent  vehicle  for  such  expression. 
Its  quantitative  dynamic  power  is  undisputed  ;  and  the  qualitative  element, 
which  it  lacks,  is  supplied  by  the  performer.  Especially  is  this  true  of 
vocal  music,  in  which  the  quality  of  emotion  is  distinctly  indicated  by  the 
text — from  which  latter  the  singer  takes  his  cue." — W.  F.  APTHORP  :  "  Ex- 
pression in  Music  "  ("  Symphony  Notes,"  1900). 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  25 

In  such  lines  as  these : 

"  How  pleasant,  as  the  yellowing  sun  declines, 
And  with  long  rays  and  shades  the  landscape  shines, 
To  mark  the  birches'  stems  all  golden  light, 
That  lit  the  dark  slant  woods  with  silvery  white ; 
The  willow's  weeping  trees,  that  twinkling  hoar, 
Glanced  oft  upturn'd  along  the  breezy  shore, 
Low  bending  o'er  the  colour'd  water,  fold 
Their  moveless  boughs  and  leaves  like  threads  of  gold ; " 

— WORDSWORTH  :  "  An  Evening  Walk." 

we  have  as  distinct  a  mental  picture  of  that  which  the 
words  describe  as  if  it  were  painted  before  us  upon  a 
objective  canvas.  On  the  other  hand,  when  we  read 
verse  such  lines  as  the  following,  we  realise  that  we 

have  entered  the  realm  of  the  abstract,  the  realm  in 
which  music  lives  and  moves  and  has  its  being. 

"  The  gleam, 

Subiective       ^ne  ^S^t  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
verse  The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream ;  " 

— WORDSWORTH  :  "  Elegiac  Stanzas." 

"  Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy ;  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle  \  sensation,  soul,  and  form 
All  melted  into  him ;  they  swallow'd  up 
His  animal  being ;  in  them  did  he  live, 
And  by  them  did  he  live ;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not;  in  enjoyment  it  expired." 

— WORDSWORTH:  " The  Excursion." 


26  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

"  The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  among  us ;  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds — " 

— SHELLEY  :  "  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty." 

"  Believe  thou,  O  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  truth ; 
And  vice  and  anguish  and  the  wormy  grave 
Shapes  of  a  dream." 

— COLERIDGE  :  "  Religious  Musings." 

Technically  music  and  verse  overlap  but  a  little  way ; 
therefore,  in  adopting  the  symbols  of  musical  notation 
Technically  for  the  measurement  of  verse,  we  use  as  models 
music  and  only  the  forms  of  primary  music — such  simple 

verse  over-  . 

lap  only  a  rhythmic  effects  as  are  found,  for  example,  in 
little  way  Folk-music,  the  world  over.  With  the  com- 
plicated science  of  music,  verse  has  nothing  to  do.  We 
speak,  by  that  license  which  permits  the  borrowing  of  a 
term  from  one  art  to  use  connotatively  in  another,  of 
the  harmonies  in  verse;  but,  technically  speaking,  har- 
mony is  the  science  of  many  voices  together;  and  verse 
is  but  a  single  voice,  a  solo  instrument,  a  melody  pure  and 
simple.  Therefore,  although  in  fundamental  rhythms 
music  and  verse  are  identical,  the  analogy  cannot  be 
pushed  beyond  the  very  rudiments  of  musical  form. 

Music  and  poetry  are  both  the  result  of  the  discovery 
by  man  that  the  higher  vibrations,  either  of  sound  alone^ 
or  of  sound  with  words,  when  measured  off  into  regular 
periods  of  time,  were  pleasant  Jto  the  ear.  In  substance 
this  was  an  instinct.  All  nature  is  more  or  less  recog- 
nisably  rhythmic,  and  it  has  been  more  than  once  sug- 
gested that  the  length  of  a  breath  furnished  the  primitive 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  27 

quotient  for  verse.  This  is  very  likely  true  of  the  metri- 
cal outlines — early  poetry  being  a  species  of  recitative — 
and  the  finer  elements  of  primary  rhythm  were  only 
gradually  evolved. 

The  basic  principle  of  music  is  time ;  measurements 
of  time;  uniform  measurements  of  time;  which  measure- 
The  basic  ments  are  represented  by  notes. 
ofmu^cand  ^he  basic  principle  of  verse  is  time ;  meas- 
of verse  urements  of  time;  uniform  measurements  of 
time;  which  measurements  are  represented  by  words. 

Now  the  quality  which  measures  off  sound  vibrations- 
into  regular  periods  of  time  is  accent.     In  a  group  of  mu- 
Accentthe      sical  beats  the  mind  instinctively  emphasises 
special  ones  and  leaves  others  unemphasised, 
ment  thus   engendering   accent.      In  some  cases  a 

natural  pause,  or  silent  beat,  takes  the  place  of  the  ut- 
tered note ;  and  it  is  this  regular  succession  of  accented 
beats  with  unaccented  beats,  or  of  accented  beats  with 
pauses,  which  constitutes  primary  rhythm. 

"  Metre1  (primary  rhythm)  in  music,  is  the  grouping  of 

two,  three,  or  more  tones,  as  time-units  into  a  whole, 

Definition       or  time-integer,  called  measure,  the  first  part 

of  primary      of  which  (the  thesis] 2  has  an  accent,  the  second 

part  (the  arsis)  either  no  accent  or  a  weak  one. 

1  The  word  metre,  as  applied  to  verse,  refers  specifically  to  the  meas- 
urement of  the  line,  i.e.,  to  the  number  of  measures  (bars  or  feet),  therefore 
I  prefer  here  to  substitute  the  term  primary  rhythm  for  what  Mr.  Cornell 
designates  as  metre,  because  it  more  exactly  expresses  that  basic  movement 
within  the  bar,  repeated  from  bar  to  bar,  common  to  both  music  and  verse, 
and  upon  which  music  and  verse  are  both  constructed. 

In  music  the  word  rhythm  is  used  to  designate  somewhat  larger  and 
more  complex  groupings  of  notes  than  are  contained  within  the  compass  of 
one  bar,  a  conjunction  not  recognisable  in  verse. 

3  "  The  thesis  signifies  properly  the  putting  down  of  the  foot  in  beating 
time,  in  the  march  or  dance  ( '  downward  beat ' ),  and  the  arsis,  the  raising 
of  the  foot  ( '  upward  beat').  By  the  Latin  grammarians  these  terms  were 


28  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Thus  the  grouping,  e.g.,  of  four  quarter-notes  into  a 
measure,  gives  the  metre  whose  signature  is  4/4,  the  prin- 
cipal accent  being  on  the  first  quarter-note,  the  weak  on 

the  third :  thus  £  J  I  I  J  In  a  piece  of  music  em- 
bracing a  series  of  measures,  the  rule  is  that  all  meas- 
ures have  (i)  the  same  number  of  time-units  of  equal 
length ;  and  (2)  a  uniform  alternation  of  accent  and  non- 
accent;  i.e.,  the  accent  falls  on  the  same  metrical  part  in 
one  measure  as  in  another.  The  regularly  recurring 
accent  enables  the  ear  to  separate  the  measures  one  from 
another;  for  the  eye  they  are  separated  by  means  of  the 
vertical  line  called  the  bar.  ...  To  render  the 
metre  of  a  musical  thought  intelligible  to  the  ear,  it 
is  requisite  that  this  thought  exceed  the  limit  of  one 
measure.  For  it  is  only  by  the  recurrence  of  the 
same  elements  (the  same  metrical  parts)  in  the  second 
measure  that  the  metre  can  be  recognised  by  the  hear- 
ing."  ' 

I  have  quoted  verbatim  these  elementary  definitions 
of  Professor  Cornell,  because  they  apply,  in  every  par- 
Thc  same  ticular,  to  verse.  Although  verse  is  not  repre- 
in  verse  sented  by  musical  notes,  nor  divided  off  met- 
rically by  bars,  it  will  be  convenient  in  analysing  it  so  to 
measure  it;  and  I  have,  therefore,  inserted  a  series  of 
examples  farther  on. 

Sometimes  the  melody  may  begin  directly  upon  the 

made  to  mean,  respectively,  the  ending  and  beginning  of  a  measure.  By  a 
misunderstanding  which  has  prevailed  till  recently,  since  the  time  of 
Bentley,  their  true  signification  has  been  reversed.  The  error  mentioned 
arose  from  applying  to  trochaic  and  dactylic  verse  a  definition  which  was 
true  only  of  iambic  or  anapaestic." — ALLEN  and  GREENOUGH'S  Latin  Gram- 
mar :  "  Prosody,"  chap.  ii. 

1  J.  H.  CORNELL  :  "  Theory  and  Practice  of  Musical  Form,"  chaps. 
i.  and  ii. 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  29 

accent  of  the  measure ;  at  others  it  is  led  into  by  one  or 
more  unaccented  notes  called  the  anacrusis.1 

The  anacrusis  is  essentially  the  beginning  on  a  non- 
accent.  It  neither  adds  to,  nor  takes  away  from,  the 
time-value  of  the  measures,  which  are  measured  from 
accent  to  accent.  This  is  very  important  to  remember  in 
the  application  of  these  principles  to  verse,  because  a 
very  common  form  of  verse  is  that  beginning  upon  a  non- 
accented  syllable. 

Musical  no-  Music  is  written  by  a  number  of  signs 
tation  called  notes,  regularly  graded  as  to  their  rela- 

tive time-valuation. 

Thus  we  have  the  whole  note — 0 — ,  furnishing  the 
standard  of  time-value  to  all. 

We  have  the  half-note  — f — ,  two  of  which  are  required 
to  furnish  the  time-value  of  the  whole  note. 

We  have  the  quarter-note  — f — ,  two  of  which  are  re- 
quired to  furnish  the  time-value  of  a  half-note,  and  four 
of  which  are  required  to  furnish  the  time-value  of  a  whole 
note. 

We   have  the  eighth-note  — £) — ,   two    of  which  are 

required  to  furnish  the  time-value  of  a  quarter-note,  and 
eight  of  which  are  required  to  furnish  the  time-value  of  a 
whole  note. 

And  we  have  the  sixteenth-note  — ^ — ,  two  of  which 

are  required  to  furnish  the  time-value  of  the  eighth-note, 
and  sixteen  of  which  are  required  to  furnish  the  time- 
value  of  a  whole  note. 

Music-notation  runs  into  much  higher  denominations, 

1  Anacrusis  is  a  Greek  word,  and  was  borrowed  by  music  from  poetry. 
In  verse,  the  anacriisis  has  also  been  called  a  hypermetrical  syllable. 


30  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

but  they  are  omitted  here  because  none  smaller  than 
those  given  could  ever  be  required  in  verse-notation. 

A  dot  placed  after  any  note  means  that  it  is  to  be 
held  half  as  long  again  as  its  original  time-value.  Thus 

we   may   write   a    3-beat    measure    either  I    &     D    D  I 
or    |     f        f,     |  or  |     r  '  |  • 

There  are  also  signs  for  rests,  or  silences,  correspond- 
ing in  time-values  with  each  note.  Thus : 

*  -  -,  f  -  ;  f  -> ;  D_>  $  P  *. 

The  rest  may  take  a  dot  after  it  in  the  same  way  as  the 
note. 

As  we  do  not,  in  verse-notation,  have  to  consider 
tonality,  or  pitch,  we  do  not  require  either  the  staff  or 
its  signatures,  but  may  write  our  syllabled  notes  in  a 
single  line. 

There  are  only  two  forms  of  primary  rhythm;  viz.,  that 

based  upon  two  beats  to  the  measure  ;  and  that  based  upon 

three  beats  to  the  measure.      This  is  rhythm  re- 

I  wo  forms 

of  primary      duced  to  its  units. 

rhythm  Thus  ._2_beat  rhythm  :— 

I  2  12  I  2121 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank." 

"  How"  being  the  anacrusis  is  outside  of  the  metric 
scheme,  and  we  do  not  begin  to  measure  the  metre  until 
we  reach  the  first  accent. 

3-beat  rhythm : — 

123123123  i 

"  There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream." 

The  same  is  applicable  here;  "  There's  a"  being  the 
non-accented  anacrusis. 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  31 

Now,  if  we  substitute  notes  for  numbers,  we  shall  have 
the  following: 

r  i  r   r  i  r   n  r   r  i  r   r  i  r 

"  How  sweet  the      moon  -  light     sleeps        up   -    on     this  bank," 
and 

r    n  r  r  fir  rnr rnr 

"  There's    a       bow  -  er    of         ro  -  ses  by  Bendemeer's    stream." 

Every  syllable  represents  a  note.  The  dot  may  pro- 
long it  sometimes,  and  occasionally  the  rest  may  repre- 

Every  syl=       SCnt    **  »    ^Utj  SS    a    rU^G>    t^1C    measure    mUSt  be 

labie  repre-     full,  or  a  sufficient  number  of  measures  in  the 
verse   or  line   must  be  full,  so  as  to  produce 
upon    the  ear  the  orderly  sequence   of  that  rhythm  in 
which  the  poem  is  written.1 

Roughly  speaking,  the  verse  or  line  may  be  said  to 
correspond  to  the  musical  phrase ;  the  whole  stanza  to 
the  finished  melody. 

The  accent  upon  dissyllables  and  polysyllables  is  always 

fixed ;  that   is,  it   is  always  upon  the  same  syllable  of  a 

word,  in  whatever  position  that  word  may  be 

placed,  and  we  cannot  alter  it.2     On  the  other 

1  In  music,  syncopation — the  throwing  out  of  a  note,  or  notes,  from  the 
natural  accent — is  of  course  common  ;  but  in  these  instances  other  voices, 
as  those  of  instrumental  accompaniment,  or,  in  the  case  of  folk-dancing,  a 
stamp  of  the  foot,  a  snap  of  the  fingers,  or  a  clash  of  castanets,  supply  the 
missing  stroke  to  the  ear.     For  the  ear  must  keep  this  sense  of  accent. 

Syncopation  in  verse  is  not  conceivable. 

2  A  study  of  the  literature  of  the  past  shows  us  that  formerly  it  was  cus- 
tomary often  to  write  with  a  wrenched  accent ;  that  is,  throwing  the  accent 
arbitrarily  upon  a  syllable  where  it  does  not  belong.     Thus  : 

"  That  through  the  green  cornfields  did  pass." — SHAKESPEARE. 
This  will  pass  muster  musically  because  cornfields  is  a  compound  word,  and 


32  THE   MUSICAL   BASIS   OF    VERSE 

hand,  monosyllables  may  be  used  much  as  we  please,  and 
we  may  cast  them  in  the  verse  or  line  either  as  accented 
or  unaccented,  to  suit  our  own  purposes.  The  same 
word  may,  in  one  and  the  same  sentence,  be  found  first 
upon  the  accented  beat,  and  later  upon  the  unaccented 
beat.  But  it  is  bad  writing  to  put  upon  the  accented 
beat  of  the  measure  any  weak  monosyllable,  such  as  the 
articles  a  and  the,  the  preposition  of,  the  conjunction 
and,  etc.,  etc. 

In  a  word  of  three  syllables,  if  it  is  cast  in  2-beat 
rhythm,  there  will  fall  an  accent  upon  the  third  syllable 
as  well  as  upon  the  first,  as  this  third  syllable  becomes 
naturally  the  thesis  of  the  next  measure.  Thus: 

r  rif  ri?  rif  rir.nr 

"  How  pi  -  ti  -  ful  the  cry  of  those  be-reaved." 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  word  pitiful  be  cast  in  3-beat 
rhythm,  it  will  have  but  one  accent,  upon  the  first  syllable. 
Thus: 


"  Oh   it  was     pitiful,  near  a  whole  city  full." 

both  syllables  are  generically  heavy,  so  it  does  not  hurt  the  ear  to  throw  the 
accent  out.     But  the  following  wrenched  accent  from  Swinburne  is  inadmis- 

sible : 

"  For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player." 

The  use  of  wrenched  accent  is  now  rightly  condemned  ;  and  the  reason  is 
not  far  to  seek.  Although  we  may  vary  our  metrical  schemes  to  suit,  and 
may  take  great  liberties  with  colour  and  melodic  effects,  we  must  not  disturb 
the  accent,  because  it  is  the  mensural  factor,  the  cornerstone  upon  which 
rests  the  whole  fabric  of  primary  rhythm. 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  33 

Inserted  below  are  sixteen  examples  of  notated  verse; 
twelve  from  modern  poets,  and  four  from  Shakespeare. 


NO.  I. 

EXAMPLE   OF    2 -BEAT   RHYTHM.1 


f   ir  fir    r  i  f  r  I  r 

Calm         soul  of             all        things !     make  it           mine 

r    i  r  r  i  r    fir  fir 

To            feel,  a      -     mid         the           ci     -  ty's             jar, 

f  i  f  r  i  f    r  i  f  r  i  r 

That       there  a    -     bides        a          peace  of           thine, 

Mr  r  if     fir  rir 

Man         did  not        make         and         can  -     not      mar. 
— MATTHEW  ARNOLD  :  "  Lines  written  in  Kensington  Gardens." 


NO.  II. 

EXAMPLE   OF    2 -BEAT   RHYTHM. 

ir    fir    fir    fir    ^  i 

Love.       that          hath       us  in          the       net, 

ir    fir    r  i  r    r  if    «>  \ 

Can        he  pass        and         we          for    -    get  ? 

1  In  writing  these  notations,  I  have  followed  the  usages  of  musicians. 
The  student  will  readily  see  that  the  bar  counts  metrically  whether  it  is 
filled  out  by  a  rest  or  not,  because  the  principle  of  measurement  is  from 
accent  to  accent. 


34  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

if    r  i  r    r  i  f    rir    v 

Man     -     y          suns          a      -      rise         and       set. 

nj  r  i  r    rir    fir 

Many      a         chance      the         years        be    -    get. 

ir    r  i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r    v 

Love        the        gift          is  love        the       debt. 

ir     r  i  r    </.•  j 

E      -      ven         so. 

—TENNYSON  :  «'  The  Miller's  Daughter." 


NO.  III. 

EXAMPLE   OF    2 -BEAT   RHYTHM. 

rir   rir   r  i  r    r  i  f  nr 

The   cur   -   few        tolls      the       knell       of         part  -  ing     day, 

nr   r  i  r   r  i  r    fir   r  i  r 

The     low  -  ing       herds    wind      slow    -    ly         o'er      the     lea, 

nr    rir   nr   rir   nr 

The  ploughman        homeward      plods      his      wear     -     y     way, 

rir    rir   rir    rir   rir 

And  leaves     the      world       to        dark  -  ness       and       to    me. 
— GRAY  :  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard." 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  35 

NO.    IV. 

EXAMPLE   OF    2  -BEAT   RHYTHM. 

r  nr  rir  n  r  nr  nr  n 

One  who     nev  -  er  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 


if  rir.ri  r 

Nev  -  er    doubt-ed  clouds  would  break, 

if  n  r  rif  n  r  nr  nr  n 

Nev-er  dreamed,  though  right  were  worst-ed,  wrong  would  triumph, 

ir  rir  rir  n  r  nr  nr  n 

Held  we      fall    to      rise,  are      baf  -  fled     to     fight  bet  -  ter, 


i  r  r  i  r 

Sleep   to    wake. 

—  BROWNING  :  Epilogue  to  "  Asolando." 


NO.   V. 

EXAMPLE   OF    3 -BEAT   RHYTHM. 

MP  *  M  t  t  t>\t  t>  M  r 

Three     fish  -  ers  went     sail-ing   out       in  -  to    the       west, 

*    Ifr  fr  M  fr  ^  M  f      t  \  ? 

Out          in  -  to   the     west,  as    the     sun       went      down, 


36  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

t  \t>  t>  t\t>  t  t\r     Mr 

Each     thought  of   the      wom-an  who  loved        him      best, 


t 

And     the         chil-dren  stood  watch-ing  them  out  of  the     town  ; 


fr  i  r     Mr     Hfr  ^  M  f 

For        men       must    work        and    wom-en  must      weep, 


PI  r    MP  P  M  r 

And  there's        lit  -  tie    to      earn         and     man  -  y     to     keep, 

&    P  i  £>    r  i  r    M  ^  r 

Though  the  har  -  bour      bar  be     moan-ing. 

— CHARLES  KINGSLEY  :  "  The  Three  Fishers." 

NO.   VI. 

EXAMPLE   OF   3 -BEAT   RHYTHM. 


I  f     M  t>  t  M  ^  r     |  f  f 

Where         I          find    her   not,     beau-ties  van  -  ish  ; 


Whith-er     I         f  ol  -  low     her,      beau-ties  flee  ; 


Is   there  no     meth-od     to       tell'   her     in       Span-ish 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  37 


ir     M  P  ^  M  p  001  r 

June's       twice  June  since  she  breathed  it    with      me  ? 


if      M  P  0  M;P  M  1*  f     I 

Come,        bud,    show  me     the     least  of     her         trac  -  es, 


it>t>  t  \t>  r     \t>  0  01  r 

Treasures   my         la  -  dy's  light  -  est  foot  -  fall  ! 


M  r     0  1^  0  01  0  r    i 

Ah,  you  may      flout  and     turn     up   your      fac  -  es  — 


r  ^  0      0     M  0  0  P  i  r  * 

Ros  -  es,  you      are     not    so       fair    af  -  ter       all  ! 

—  BROWNING  :  "  Garden  Fancies." 


NO.  VII. 

EXAMPLE   OF    3  -BEAT   RHYTHM. 


10  P  P  I  M  M 

One  more   un  -     fort   -   u  -  nate, 

If  M  I  f       y 

Wear  -  y         of         breath, 


M  fr  P  P 

Rash  -  ly        im     -      port  -  u  -  nate, 


38  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 


n  r 

Gone     to     her        death  ! 


Take     her      up  ten  -  der  -   ly, 


M  I  f       H 


Lift     her    with        care; 


M  p    f    M 

Fashioned      so          slen  -  der  -  ly, 


r 

Young  and      so  fair. 


n 

Look     at      her  garments 


i  r    PI 

Clinging       like         cere     -     ments; 


If  M  i  M  M 

Whilst  the   wave        con  -  stant  -  ly 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  39 


M  P  r    i 

Drips  from   her  clothing  ; 


\t>    t>    t>\t   t>   t>   \ 

Take   her      up  in  -  slant  -  ly, 


P  I    P    f       I 

Loving,      not  loathing. 

—THOMAS  HOOD  :  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs." 


NO.  VIII. 

EXAMPLE   OF    3  -BEAT   RHYTHM. 

i  r     Mr    M  r    Mr 

Clear        and    cool,  clear     and    cool, 

MM    1  00  M  &  r    if 

By       laughing          shallow  and   dreaming        pool  ; 

if     Mr     y  i  r     Mr 

Cool       and  clear,  cool       and  clear, 

M  fr  r     I  fr  p  M  M     if; 

By         shining  shingle  and   foaming  weir; 

I  fr  £  M  P  P  M  fr  f     If 

Under   the  crag  where  the     ouzel  sings, 


40  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

t  t>  \t  f    IP  0  0  1  f    Mf 

And  the         ivied  wall  where  the  church    bell  rings, 


if    P  i  P  P  P  i  r    P  i  r 

Un          de  -  filed  for  the      un     -     de  -  filed  ; 


Play  by  me,   bathe  in  me,    mother  and     child. 
—  CHARLES  KINGSLEY  :  "  The  Song  of  the  River." 


NO.  IX. 

EXAMPLE   OF    3~BEAT   RHYTHM. 

\p  y  r  \  t  *  y  \t> 

Break,         break,        break, 


Mr     c»  i  r 

On     thy     cold  grey      stones,          O  sea! 


M  r      ML/ 

And     I       would  that  my        tongue    could  utter 


Mfr  fr  H 

The  thoughts  that      a    -    rise  in         me. 

—  TENNYSON  :  ."  Break,  Break,  Break." 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND 


NO.  X. 

EXAMPLE   OF   3~BEAT   RHYTHM. 

r     Mr-      ir    p  i  r 


Sweet      and     low, 

IP  P  M  t>  f 

Wind  of  the    western 


Sweet     and    low, 

if     y  i 

sea; 


if      i r       i  r    P  i  r 

Low,  low,  breathe  and     blow, 


1  p  £>  t>  \  t>  f 

Wind  of  the    western 


sea 


i^  P  pifr  r    if    r  ir    r  i 

O  -  ver    the     rolling  wa  -  ters       go, 

IP  p  Mfr  r    if    P  i  r    y  i 

Come  from  the  dying          moon      and   blow, 

ip  p  pi r     P  ir     y  i 

Blow  him  a  -  gain        to      me ; 

if     P  i  o  P  P  i  r    Mpppir    r 

While       my      little     one,  while     my       pretty   one      sleeps. 

— TENNYSON:  "The  Princess." 


42  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

NO.   XL 

EXAMPLE   OF    2 -BEAT   RHYTHM. 

r  ic     if  r  K    if  r  i?     if  f  if 

It's   we          two,  it's  we         two,   it's  we         two    for     aye, 

ir  r  ir  r  ir     if  f  if  f  if  f  if  ^ 

All  the  world  and  we       two,   and  heaven   be   our   stay. 

ir   f  \tf  f  If  f  if  ^if  f  if  f  if  v 

Like    a  laverock   in   the  lift,        sing,  O      bonny  bride ! 

If    f  If  flf  fif  f  \?     if  r  if  ^ 

All     the  world  was  Adam  once  with  Eve        by  his   side. 

— JEAN  INGELOW  :  "  Like  a  Laverock  in  the  Lift." 


NO.   XII. 

EXAMPLE   OF    2  -BEAT   RHYTHM. 


0  MLT  r  ir   0  PI  r    r  i  r 

Tis     the       middle       of      night      by     the     cas     -     tie  clock, 

Mir     tt\t   t>  t>\t    r  i  r 

And     the     owls         have  a  -  wak  -  ened  the     crow  -  ing  cock  ; 


Tn  -  whit  !  Tu  -  whoo  ! 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  43 

Mr    fir   x pir    fir 

And     hark,         a     -     gain !          the     crow  -    ing       cock, 

Mr     r  i  r    fir 

How    drow    -    si     -      ly  it         crew. 

— COLERIDGE  :  "  Christabel." 


NO.   XIII 
SONG  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 


2 -BEAT   RHYTHM 


r    ir    fir    rir  r  i  r 

When       dai    -     sies        pied        and        vio    -  lets          blue, 

r    i  r    r  i  r    r  ir  r  i  r 

And          la      -      dy     -     smocks     all          sil     -  ver         white, 

r    i  r    r  ir    r  ir  r  i  r 

And        cuck    -    oo    -    buds           of        yel     -  low           hue, 

r   i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r  r  i  r 

Do          paint         the         mead  -  ows         with  de     -     light, 

r  i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r  r  i  r 

The        cuck    -    oo          then,         on  eve     -    ry  tree, 

rir    r  i  r     r  i  r  r  i  r 

Mocks      mar   -   ried       men;        for           thus  sings          he, 


44  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

r  i  r 

Cuck    -    oo ! 

r  i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r 

Cuck   -    oo,       cuck    -    oo,  O          word          of  fear, 

rir    r  i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r 

Un     -     pleas   -   ing          to  a  mar     -     ried         ear ! 

— From  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost." 


NO.  XIV 

SONG  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 
2 -BEAT  RHYTHM 

ILT  r  i  r    c  i  r 

Under        the       green  -  wood  tree 

r    if     r  i  r    r  i  r 

Who         loves          to  lie        with  me, 

r    i  r     r  i  r    r  i  r 

And         tune  his          mer    -     ry  note 


Lf  f  i  r    r  i  r 

Unto        the        sweet       bird's        throat, 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  45 


r    iu  r  i  LT  r 

Come       hither,     come         hither,  come        hither: 

f    i  f    f  i  r    r  i  r    r  i  r 

Here       shall        he          see          no          en      -      e       -       my 

r   if    r  if    f  \LJ 

But  win     -      ter        and        rough       weather. 

—From  "  As  You  Like  It." 


NO.  XV 

SONG  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 
2  -BEAT  RHYTHM 


Come  a   -   way,     come  a  -  way,   death, 


r  ir    f  i  a  f  ir    r  i  r 

And         in  sad        cypress     let       me          be  laid; 


f   lit    f  \f 

Fly   a  -  way,        fly   a   -   way,  breath  ; 


nr 

I     am       slain  by   a     fair,          cruel   maid. 


46  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Mr     fir    r  i  r    r  i  r 

My        shroud     of         white,     stuck  all  with          yew, 

i  r  •  t>\  r    r  i 

O  pre  -  pare       it  ! 

r  '  r    r  ir    r  Ir    r  i  r 

My         part          of        death,       no  one         so             true 


f 

Did       share          it. 

—From  "Twelfth  Night." 


NO.  XVI 

SONG  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 
3  -BEAT  RHYTHM 


Mr     Mr     Mr     M  r 

When   daff      -      o  -  dils  be    -    gin  to 


Mf  Mf       H  p  p-  M   f 

With     hey  !  the     dox      -      y           o  -  ver      the        dale,— 

fir  Mr     M*>  0  1  r 

Why,     then  comes     in            the      sweet   o'      the        year; 

MM  r  (f  1  1  t  t>  i  r      Mr 

For  the      red  blood     reigns  in   the        win      -      ter's       pale. 

—From  "The  Winter's  Tale." 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  47 

All  verse  may  be  analysed  upon  this  basis.  If  we 
should  wish,  in  analysing  a  verse  of  poetry,  to  use  a  sig- 
AII  verse  nature  of  time-value,  we  may  write  it  thus: 
upolfthts  2/4>  wm'ch  signifies  four  measures  of  2-beat 
basis  rhythm;  or  2/5,  which  signifies  five  measures 

of  2-beat  rhythm ;  or  3/4,  which  signifies  four  measures 
of  3-beat  rhythm ;  and  so  on. 

Different  There  are  three  different  manners  of  writing 

manners        verse ;  viz. :  (i)  Strict,  (2)  With  direct  attack, 

of  verse  /   \    r- 

(3)  Free. 

I  have  given  the  name  Strict  to  that  style  of  verse  in 
which  all  the  lines  begin  uniformly  with  the  anacrusis; 
as  in  Numbers  I,  III,  V,  XIII,  XVI.  The  use  of  the 
anacrusis  imparts  a  certain  elegance  and  suavity — as  it 
were,  a  legato  movement — to  the  verse.  Strict  verse  is 
usually  employed  in  the  expression  of  stately  and  dig- 
nified ideas. 

Direct  attack  is,  on  the  other  hand,  verse  written  uni- 
formly throughout  the  poem  without  the  anacrusis ;  that 
is,  beginning  directly  upon  the  accent  of  the  measure ;  as 
in  Numbers  II,  IV,  VI,  VII,  X.  Direct  attack  is,  of 
course,  also  a  strict  style  of  another  sort.  The  direct 
attack  gives  a  splendid  momentum  to  the  rhythmic  move- 
ment, much  like  the  first  launching  spring  of  a  swimmer. 
Browning,  more  than  any  other  modern  poet,  makes 
frequent  and  masterly  use  of  the  direct  attack.  Fine 
instances  of  it  are  also  to  be  found  in  Tennyson's 
"  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  Campbell's  "  Battle  of 
the  Baltic,"  Scott's  "Twist  ye,  Twine  ye,"  and  many 
others. 

Verse  is  free  when  the  lines  of  a  poem  may  begin  either 
with  or  without  the  anacrusis,  according  to  the  rhythmic 
feeling  of  the  poet  and  the  effect  to  be  produced;  as  in 
Numbers  VIII,  IX,  XII,  XIV,  XV.  Free  verse  is  very 


48  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

much  less  used — because  more  difficult  to  handle  with 
the  proper  rhythmic  equilibrium — in  2-beat  rhythm  than 
in  3-beat  rhythm.  In  2-beat  verse,  unless  handled  with 
the  finest  instinct — an  instinct  which  none  but  the  masters 
of  verse  possess — the  irregularity  is  apt  to  appeal  to  the 
ear  as  superfluous  syllables,  and  to  make  the  rhythm  halt 
upon  its  feet.  Shakespeare  was  a  past-master  of  these 
effects,  and  had  so  fine  an  ear  that  he  played  upon  this 
not  very  elastic  measure  as  if  it  had  been  an  instrument 
of  many  strings.  In  our  century,  Coleridge  has  been 
conspicuous  for  the  same  rare  faculty. 

In  3-beat  rhythm,  free  verse  is  a  very  common  and 
most  useful  medium ;  and,  although  in  unskilled  hands  it 
shows  some  tendency  to  slovenliness,  it  is  wonderfully 
elastic,  permitting  great  freedom  of  diction  and  great 
variety  of  verse-cadence. 

Styles  should  not  be  mixed  any  more  than  rhythms. 
If  we  adopt  strict  verse  for  our  thematic  movement — to 
borrow  a  term  from  music — we  must  preserve  this  style 
throughout  the  poem.  If  we  adopt  direct  attack,  direct 
attack  must  be  uniformly  preserved.  It  is  only  in  the 
looser,  bohemian  free  verse  that  they  may  commingle; 
but  even  here  they  need  a  fine  ear  for  nice  contrast  in 
order  to  produce  poetry  and  not  doggerel. 

We  may  now  proceed  to  an  analytical  examination  of 
the  notated  poems. 

A  comparison  of  Numbers  I  and  II  shows  that  the  two 
poems  are  rhythmically  and  metrically  identical — that  is, 
Detailed  they  are  both  cast  in  2/4;  but  the  direct  attack 
notlted80*  of  tne  second  example  gives  a  distinctly  differ- 
poems  ent  cadence.  It  is  less  formal,  and  has  more 

motion.  Exactly  the  same,  also,  as  the  foregoing  poems 
—the  same  rhythmically  and  metrically,  but  varying  in 
its  final  cadence — is  Longfellow's-"  Psalm  of  Life." 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  49 

"  Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
'  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  ' 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem." 

Another  variety  of  cadence  is  given  here  by  the  use, 
in  the  first  and  third  lines,  of  the  double^  or  feminine 
Feminine  rhyme ;  e.g.,  numbers,  slumbers.  But  the  rJiytJim 
ending  jlas  noj-  been  altered  thereby;  the  last  measure 

is  filled  out,  that  is  all,  instead  of  ending,  as  in  the  first 
two  examples,  upon  the  first  accented  word.  The  fern- 
inine  ending  gives  an  added  vibration. 

Example  Number  III  varies  from  Number  I  only  in 
having  one  more  measure  to  the  verse  or  line.  It  is  2/5. 
This  is  one  of  the  purest  examples  we  have  of  the  heroic 
verse,  so  common  in  English  verse,  and  its  greatest 
glory.  Whether  employed  in  stanzas,  rhymed  couplets, 
or  blank  verse,  it  is  the  most  dignified  and  elevated  poetic 
medium  we  have. 

Number  IV  is  also  in  2-beat  rhythm,  but  it  is  metri- 
cally irregular,  the  lines  being  (within  the  stanza)  of  dif- 
ferent lengths.  The  poem  is  not,  however,  an  irregular 
poem,  because  the  stanzas  are  alike. 

Number  V  is  our  first  example  of  triple,  or  3-beat, 
rhythm.  This  poem  is  also  strict,  having  the  anacrusis 
regularly  throughout. 

As  we  shall  see,  by  an  examination  of  this  and  the  fol- 
lowing poems  in  triple  measure,  the  full  three  notes,  or 
Triple  syllables,  are  not  required  to  appear  in  every 

rhythm  fiar^  nor  in(jeecj  jn  absolutely  every  line ;  but 
it  must  be  clearly  indicated  at  the  outset,  so  that  the  ear 
takes  the  impression  of  this  rhythm,  and  it  must  appear 

1  The  feminine  ending  will  be  found  treated  with  more  expansion  in 
chap.  iii. 

4 


50  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

in  certainly  every  other  line,  so  that  this  impression  shall 
be  continued  and  not  become  weakened  or  lost.  In  some 
extant  poems  one  has  to  read  several  lines  in  order  to 
discover  whether  the  generic  rhythm  be  3-beat  or  2-beat ; 
as  in  this  song  from  Browning's  "  Pippa  Passes." 

"  Overhead  the  treetops  meet, 

Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet; 
There  was  naught  above  me,  naught  below 
My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know : 
For  what  are  the  voices  of  birds 
— Ay  and  of  beasts — but  words,  our  words, 
Only  so  much  more  sweet  ?  ' ' 

This  poem  is  really  in  3-beat  rhythm,  but  there  is  noth- 
ing in  the  first  two  lines  to  indicate  this;  they  are  plain 
2-beat.  The  true  rhythm  is  first  indicated — none  too 
clearly — in  the  anacrusis  of  the  third  line,  and  does  not 
distinctly  take  possession  of  the  ear  until  the  fifth  line. 
This  has  always  seemed  to  me  an  artistic  defect.  The 
rhythmic  key-note  should  be  clearly  struck  at  the  begin- 
ning, so  that  the  ear  become  imbued  with  it;  and,  if 
irregularities  are  to  occur,  they  should  come  later. 

Numbers  V  and  VI  are  rhythmically  and  metrically 
identical — both  being  3/4;  but,  as  we  saw  in  a  previous 
instance,  the  direct  attack  of  "The  Flower's  Name" 
gives  it  more  vibration;  the  presence  of  the  feminine 
ending  in  the  first  and  third  lines  of  every  quatrain  vary- 
ing the  cadence  still  further. 

We  have  in  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs  "—Number  VII— 
a  very  melodious  poem,  although,  less  well  handled,  so 
short  a  line  might  easily  have  a  choppy,  grotesque  effect ; 
— vide  some  of  the  "  Bab  Ballads."  It  has  one  slight  de- 
fect to  my  ear ;  and  this  is  that,  the  direct  attack  having 
been  basically  adopted,  the  irregularity  of  an  anacrusis 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  51 

has  been  allowed  to  creep  into  several  of  the  later  stanzas, 
thus  preventing  entire  artistic  perfection. 

Very  similar  in  movement  is  James  Hogg's  "  Skylark." 

"  Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blythesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  !  " 

Here  the  increased  length  of  the  third  and  sixth  lines 
gives  a  good  balance  to  the  shorter  ones. 

In  Number  VIII  we  have  our  first  example  oifree  verse. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  English  language  more  melodious 
Free  or  more  rhythmically  suggestive  than  this  little 

verse  lyric.  Observe  the  perfect  manner  in  which 

the  lines  with  direct  attack  are  contrasted  with  the  strict 
lines,  making  beautiful  verse.  Also  the  prolonged  syl- 
lables of  the  first  and  third  lines  seem  to  give  a  liquid 
suggestion,  as  of  gliding  waters.  The  equilibrium  be- 
tween the  full  and  non-full  bars  is  very  nice;  and  the 
full  beats  of  the  last  line  seem  to  impart  to  it  an  accel- 
erated motion,  as  if  the  gliding  changed  to  rushing. 

Of  Number  IX  I  might  almost  repeat  my  remarks  as 
to  the  suggestive  effects  of  the  rhythmic  management, 
except  that  in  "  Break,  Break,  Break  "  the  impression  in- 
tended is  of  breaking,  not  gliding,  waters.  This  is  admir- 
ably done  by  the  staccato  syllables  followed  by  rests. 
We  seem  to  get  the  very  impact  of  the  surf.  The  key  to 
the  rhythm  is  distinctly  struck  in  the  anacrusis  of  the 
second  line,  and  it  sweeps  in  fully  in  the  third.  There 
is  never  the  slightest  doubt. 

Number  X  is  also  an  excellent  example  of  the  equilib- 
rium of  measures  with  the  direct  attack  preserved  uni- 


52  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

formly  throughout.  Observe  the  lulling  sound  of  the 
long,  full-barred  line  at  the  end.  These  nuances  are  due, 
not  to  accident,  but  are  the  subtle  touches  of  great 
masters  of  verse. 

In  Number  XI  we  have  a  lyric  famous  for  its  spirited 
cadences ;  but  few  persons  analyse  closely  enough  to 
detect  that  there  is  in  it  quite  a  Shakespearean  freedom 
in  the  handling  of  the  2-beat  rhythm.  The  prolonged 
syllables  we  and  Eve  give  a  fine  swing,  increased  by  the 
use  of  the  direct  attack,  while  the  solitary  opening  ana- 
crusis appeals  to  the  ear,  as  in  some  of  Shakespeare's 
songs,  as  quite  legitimate,  if  sporadic. 

"  Christabel  "  —Number  XII — is  rhythmically,  perhaps, 
the  most  remarkable  of  modern  poems,  inasmuch  as  Cole- 
Doubied  ridge,  more  than  any  other  modern  poet,  seems 
notes  J-Q  nave  quite  caught  that  Elizabethan  faculty 

of  doubling  syllables  without  giving  the  slightest  sense 
of  superfluous  syllables.  The  rhythmic  balance  here  is 
quite  as  perfect  as  in  Shakespeare's  lyrics. 

It  may  be  asked  why  are  not  these  lines,  where  the 
doubled  notes,  or  syllables,  occur,  in  regular  triple 
rhythm  ?  They  are  not  in  triple  rhythm  because  the 
extra  syllables  are  sporadic,  not  organic;  that  is,  the 
whole  poem  scheme  is  in  2-beat  rhythm,  and  the  sense 
of  the  two  beats  remains  undisturbed  to  the  ear  by  these 
extra  syllables,  which  naturally  settle  themselves  into 
the  doubled  notes  indicated  in  the  notations.  This 
power  of  writing  doubled  notes  is,  however,  a  ticklish 
business  and  requires  the  feeling  of  a  master.  It  may 
be  studied  in  its  very  perfection  in  the  two  songs  from 
Shakespeare  given  in  Numbers  XIV  and  XV.  If  the 
doubled  notes  are  compared  with  the  pure  3-beat  move- 
ment of  Number  XVI,  the  radical  difference  will  be 
easily  apparent. 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  53 

The  2-beat  rhythm  and  the  3-beat  rhythm  are  as  an- 
tipodal and  as  distinct  from  each  other  as  oil  and  water, 
Rhythms  and  quite  as  impossible  to  mix  as  those  incon- 
inte"-*  gruous  elements.  They  are  not  interchange- 
changed  able,  and  one  may  never  be  substituted  for  the 
other.  To  introduce  measures  of  one  into  a  poem  cast 
in  the  other  is  to  commit  a  fault  against  artistic  purity, 
and  is  productive,  not  of  poetry,  but  of  doggerel.  No 
musical  composer  would  think  of  writing  a  piece  of  music 
with  one  or  two  bars  in  3/8  time,  the  next  in  4/4  time, 
another  in  12/8,  and  so  on,  because  this  would  result  in 
musical  chaos.  But  the  movement  which  he  selects  is 
adhered  to  uniformly  throughout  the  piece.1  Thus  is  the 
composition  homogeneous.  The  same  is  true  of  verse. 

Of  course  no  poet  who  is  at  the  same  time  an  artist 
ever  does  confuse  them ;  but  there  are  some  who,  for  the 
elevation  of  their  thought  and  their  eloquence  of  diction, 
take  high  rank,  yet  whose  ears  are  too  defective  for  true 
rhythmic  perfection.  There  is  scarcely  a  poem  of  Emer- 
son's where  this  artistic  solecism  is  not  committed,  the 
confusions  of  rhythm  giving  to  much  of  his  verse  that 
halting  quality,  often  so  painful  to  the  ears  of  even  his 
best  lovers.  Wordsworth  too,  though  in  a  very  much  less 
degree,  was  defective  of  ear.  Witness  his  "  Ode  to  a 
Skylark,"  which  opens  with  a  panting  triple  beat: 

"  Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  !  " 

but  before  the  end  of  the  first  stanza  it  flats  out  into  a 
somewhat  broken  2-beat  measure,  and  never  regains  the 
first  rhythmic  fervour. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  music  or  verse  may  not  be  legi- 

1  It  must  always  be  borne  in  mind  that,  in  these  comparisons,  I  am  re- 
ferring only  to  the  simplest  forms  of  musical  composition. 


54  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

timately  switched  off  upon  another  track,  if  desired. 
When,  in  music,  it  is  desired  to  change  the  rhythm, 
The  barring  there  is  a  double  bar  drawn  across  the  staff, 
off  of  verse  ancj  a  new  sjgnature — the  signature  of  the  new 
measure — is  written  in.  So,  with  a  distinct  demarkation 
— a  mental  barring  off ,  as  it  were — we  may  introduce  songs 
into  longer  compositions,  or  we  may  divide  a  long  poem 
into  distinct  parts.  In  Swinburne's  "  Atalanta  in  Cale- 
don,"  after  the  chief  huntsman's  invocation  to  Artemis, 
which  is  in  blank  verse  (2/5),  there  comes  that  brilliant 
bit  of  verbal  melody,  the  hunting  chorus,  in  ringing 
3-beat  rhythm. 

"  When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces, 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amourous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain." 

Another  example  is  in  Browning's  "  Paracelsus, ' '  where, 
from  the  meditative  speech  in  blank  verse,  ending: 

"  This  is  my  record ;  and  my  voice  the  wind's," 

Paracelsus  breaks  into  a  song  with  bounding  triple  move- 
ment very  suggestive  of  the  swell  of  the  seas  of  which  it 
sings. 

"  Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave, 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave, 
A  gallant  armament :  " 

Still  another  example  is  found  in  the  exquisite  little 
lyrics  scattered,  like  dainty  intermezzi,  through  the 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  55 

pages  of  Tennyson's"  Princess."  But  perhaps  the  most 
notable  instance  of  verse  barring  off  is  to  be  found  in 
"  Maud,"  where  the  story  is  told,  not  in  dramatic  form, 
nor  even  in  that  of  the  romantic  narrative — as  in  Brown- 
ing's "  Ivan  Ivanovitch,"  "  Donald,"  and  others — but  in 
a  succession  of  fervid  lyrics,  each  cast  in  a  separate  metri- 
cal mould. 

We  have  seen  how  we  may  vary  the  cadence  of  our 
rhythms  by  writing  the  verse  in  different  styles,  and  by 
tines  of  tne  use  of  the  feminine  ending.  We  can  give 
different  further  metrical  variety  by  employing,  and  con- 
within  the  trasting  with  each  other,  lines  of  different 
stanza  lengths  within  the  stanza.  This  varies  the 

phrase  effects  and  prevents  monotony.  The  adjustment 
of  lines  of  different  lengths  contrasted  in  a  stanza  is  not 
an  arbitrary  thing,  a  question  merely  of  caprice,  but  is 
determined  by  a  natural  pause,  or  breathing-place,  in  the 
rhetoric  or  in  the  rhythm  alone.  When  these  pauses 
occur  at  the  end  of  a  line  it  is  called  end-stopped.  Similar 
pauses  occurring  in  the  middle  of  the  verse  are  known  as 
ccesuras  or  ccesural pauses.1  Exactly  in  the  same  way  in 
music  is  a  melody  divided  naturally  into  its  component 
phrases. 

It  will  be  found  on  comparison  that,  as  a  rule,  very 
long  lines  do  not  balance  well  set  against  very  short  ones; 
also,  that  lines  of  an  uneven  number  of  measures  balance 
each  other  better  than  alternations  of  even  and  uneven. 
Thus  a  line  of  five  measures  naturally  calls  for  an  alter- 
nating line  of  three  measures  rather  than  one  of  four, 
etc.  But  for  effects  of  this  sort  rules  cannot  be  laid 

1  Cresura  (from  ccedo,  to  cut)  means  a  cutting.  This  term,  as  well  as 
anacrusis,  is  extensively  used  in  music,  the  interchangeability  of  nomencla- 
tures in  this  and  other  terms  demonstrating  anew  the  close  structural  rela- 
tion between  the  two  arts. 


56  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

down.  They  are  a  matter  of  a  trained  ear,  which  the 
student  must  develop  for  himself. 

We  also  find  that  the  ear  will  not  carry  as  a  unit  a  very 
long  line;  but  that  lines  of  more  than  five  measures  are 
caesurai  apt  mentally  to  divide  themselves  into  two 
division  periods,  because  of  the  very  strong  caesura 
always  found  in  the  middle.  The  poet  may  at  his  option 
write  these  long  phrases  either  in  one  period  or  two 
periods. 

Thus  "  Locksley  Hall  "  is  written: 

"  Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with 

might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out 
of  sight." 

But  they  more  naturally  fall  into  two  rhythmic  periods, 

thus: 

"  Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life, 

And  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling, 
Passed  in  music  out  of  sight." 

The  same  is  true  of  the  "  May  Queen,"  and  some 
others.  The  English  Ballad  Metre — the  oldest  lyric  form 
we  have — will  be  found  sometimes  written  out  in  long 
lines  with  rhymed  couplets,  as  in  Chapman's  Homer  ; 
sometimes  in  the  shorter  quatrains,  each  alternate  line 
rhymed,  as  in  Macaulay's  "  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome." 

When  we  come  to  irregular  poems — poems  with  lines 
of  irregular  lengths,  and  not  divided  into  uniform  stanzas 
E  uiiibrium  — t*ie  equilibrium  between  long  and  short  must 
of  irregular  be  very  nicely  preserved,  or  we  shall  get  an 
effect  of  chopped  prose  merely,  and  not  a  sense 
of  that  perfect  metrical  balance  required  for  a  real  poem. 
Not  having  the  equipoise  afforded  by  the  formal  stanza, 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  57 

we  have  only  the  natural  pauses  to  guide  us,  and  these 
are  sometimes  so  subtle  as  to  require  a  very  fine  ear  for 
perfect  adjustment.  Tennyson  has  given  us  many  irreg- 
ular poems,  all  marvellously  balanced.  The  "  Lotos 
Eaters"  is  an  example.  Observe,  in  the  lines  quoted 
below,  the  longer  and  longer  roll  to  each  succeeding  line, 
like  the  lazy  up-roll  of  an  incoming  tide.  The  effect  is 
most  musical. 

"  Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep." 

Wordsworth's  ode  on  the  "  Intimations  of  Immortal- 
ity "  is  a  beautifully  balanced  poem.  The  caesural  effects 
fall  naturally  and  with  great  simplicity,  and  the  melody 
moves  harmoniously  throughout.  It  is  a  fine  touch,  at 
the  last,  to  drop  entirely  into  the  always  stately  heroic 
verse. 

Lowell's  "  Commemoration  Ode,"  on  the  contrary, 
has  always  impressed  me  as  not  well  balanced,  and  very 
mechanically  divided.  The  ear  gets  no  sense  of  natural 
pauses,  and  the  theme  moves  upon  hard,  cold  numbers. 

Sidney  Lanier  was  fond  of  the  irregular  form,  and  has 
left  us  some  most  melodious  poems  in  it;  but  one  of  the 
most  perfect  specimens  of  irregular  composition  which 
I  have  ever  come  across  is  Mrs.  James  T.  Fields's  limpid 
little  "  Ode  to  Spring,"  which,  as  it  is  short,  I  insert 
entire : 

"  I  wakened  to  the  singing  of  a  bird; 
I  heard  the  bird  of  spring. 
And  lo ! 
At  his  sweet  note 


58  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

The  flowers  began  to  grow, 

Grass,  leaves,  and  everything, 

As  if  the  green  world  heard 

The  trumpet  of  his  tiny  throat 

From  end  to  end,  and  winter  and  despair 

Fled  at  his  melody,  and  passed  in  air. 

"  I  heard  at  dawn  the  music  of  a  voice. 

O  my  beloved,  then  I  said,  the  spring 

Can  visit  only  once  the  waiting  year; 

The  bird  can  bring 

Only  the  season's  song,  nor  his  the  choice 

To  waken  smiles  or  the  remembering  tear  ! 

But  thou  dost  bring 

Springtime  to  every  day,  and  at  thy  call 
*    The  flowers  of  life  unfold,  though  leaves  of  autumn  fall." 

There  is  in  verse  a  secondary  accent  concerning  the 
verse,  the  accent  of  emphasis — called  by  some  prosodists 
secondary  the  rhetorical  accent  or  the  logical  accent,— 
accent  which  not  only  serves  to  indicate  the  meaning 

of  the  words,  but  further  brings  out  the  larger  metric 
swing  of  the  whole  line. 

Some  writers  have  much  discussion  about  word  accent 
and  'Verse  accent,  and  their  correlation;  but  it  seems  so 
obvious  a  proposition  that  the  accent  of  emphasis  shall 
coincide  with  the  rhythmic  accent — that  is,  that  it  shall 
fall  upon  a  strong  syllable,  already  accented, — as  scarcely 
to  need  formal  statement. 

Lanier  concerns  himself  with  some  hair-splitting  dis- 
quisition upon  further  expression  marks;  but  verse  read- 
ing is  a  species  of  tempo  rubato,  dependent  for  expression 
upon  the  interpretive  genius  of  the  reader,  and,  therefore, 
if  it  were  advisable  to  formulate  rules  upon  these  lines — 
which  it  seems  to  me  it  is  not — they  would  belong  rather 


THE  ARTS  OF  SOUND  59 

to  the  province  of  elocution,  and  would  have  no  place  in 
a  work  upon  the  science  of  verse. 

To  sum  up  the  foregoing  chapter,  we  find: 

i.  That   music  and  verse  are  both  arts  of   sound,  or 

Summary  of    vibration. 

foregoing  2.  That  both  music  and  verse  are  measured 

by  a  natural  accent,  recurring  at  regular  in- 
tervals, and  dividing  the  notes,  or  syllables,  into  succes- 
sive groups. 

3.  That  these  groups  are  all  uniform,  each  having  the 
same  time-value  as  every  other. 

4.  That  the  measurement  of  these  groups  is  always  to 
be  made,  not  necessarily  from  the  opening  note,  or  syl- 
lable, but  from  accent  to  accent. 

Or  to  formulate  still  more  condensedly: 

Music  and  verse  are  both  dependent  for  existence  as 
such,  and  distinguished  from  chaos,  upon  continual,  bal- 
anced rhythm. 

In  concluding  this  chapter,  I  should  like  to  urge  upon 
the  student  of  verse  the  advisability  of  taking  with  his 
Advisabii-  studies  in  prosody  a  coordinate  elementary 
ity  of  study  course  in  music ;  if  possible,  vocal,  since  the 
voice — song — is  the  connecting  medium  be- 
tween music  and  verse.  It  need  not  be  with  any  view 
to  becoming  a  musical  performer,  but  should  be  rudi- 
mentarily  constructive  as  far  as  the  developing  the  under- 
standing of  metre  (primary  rhythm),  simple  phrase  divi- 
sion, and  pure  melody.  The  musically-drilled  ear  will 
instinctively  construct  rhythmic  and  melodic  verse;  while 
any  student  so  deficient  in  these  perceptions  as  to  be 
unable  to  grasp  the  elements  of  music  may  be  sure  that, 
even  by  any  poetical  license,  he  will  never  be  able  to 
produce  anything  resembling  real  poetry. 


CHAPTER   III 

DIFFERENTIATED   MOTION 

THERE  is  a  vital  quality  in  which  verse  and  music 
resemble  each  other  and  by  which  they  are  essentially 
differentiated  from  the  other  arts,  and  that  is  motion. 

Music  has  much  more  motion  than  poetry,  and  may 
therefore  be  considered  the  freest  of  all  vehicles  for  emo- 
Fbdtyof  tional  expression.  The  other  arts  are  station- 
other  arts  arv>  They  are  intellectual  snap-shots ;  bits  of 
life  snatched  from  time  and  space  and  immutably  fixed 
upon  the  mental  plates.  They  catch  for  us  a  single 
impression ;  they  perpetuate  for  us  a  single  moment  of 
human  experience.  In  such  a  picture  as  Millet's  "  An- 
gelus  " — to  use  a  universally-known  example — a  brown, 
nubbly  harvest  field  stretches  away  indefinitely  from  us, 
until  it  melts  into  the  paling  perspective.  In  the  fore- 
ground, beside  a  rude  barrow,  stand  two  of  the  har- 
vesters, a  woman  and  a  man.  They  have  heard  the  echo 
of  the  far-away  angelus,  the  bell  of  evening  prayer,  and 
stand  with  bent  heads,  devoutly  murmuring  their  orisons. 
Time  passes;  but  in  the  picture  it  does  not  pass.  Still 
the  tenebrous  field  rolls  itself  into  the  gloaming;  still,  in 
the  foreground,  stand  the  two  reverent  figures,  fixed  in 
their  attitudes  of  devotion. 

In  sculpture  we  have  exactly  the  same  momentary  con- 
ditions. All  emotional  expression  is  as  stationary  as  the 
figures  upon  Keats's  "  Grecian  Urn." 

"  Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  6 1 

Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — " 

Laocoon  stands  before  us  in  his  petrified  extremity, 
forever  striving  to  uncoil  those  never-uncoiled  serpents. 
The  Discus  Player  waits  with  body  bent  and  discus 
poised — but  never  hurled.  The  Dying  Gladiator  droops 
in  mortal  agony  above  his  shield — but  the  final  moment 
never  arrives ;  he  does  not  die. 

But  with  poetry  what  a  difference!  Here  we  have 
motion,  progression,  vibration ;  in  short,  the  concrete 
Motion  manifestation  of  energy;  and  energy,  the  sci- 
of  poetry  entist  tells  us, ' '  manifests  itself  as  motion,  heat, 
light,  chemical  action,  sound." 

Poetry  moves,  not  only  abstractly  by  the  unfoldment 
of  the  thought — pictorial,  dramatic,  spiritual — moving  in 
orderly  sequence  from  premise  to  conclusion ;  but  con- 
cretely, by  the  rhythmic  vibration  of  its  numbers.  We 
have  in  verse,  not  a  solitary  impression,  but  a  succession 
of  impressions;  not  a  single  pictorial  moment,  but  a  whole 
mental  panorama.  Moved  by  the  master-hand  of  the 
artist,  like  men  upon  a  chessboard,  there  pass  before  us 
marvellous  presentments  of  that  strange  game  called 
Life.  In  company  with  Roland  we  turn  loathingly  from 
the  "  hoary  cripple  with  malicious  eyes,"  and  plunge 
into  the  "  ignoble  country."  We  follow  across  the 
"  sudden  little  river,"  where  he  fears  to  set  his  foot 
"  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek,"  on  to  the  "  bit  of  stubbed 
ground  once  a  wood,"  through  the  marsh,  and  over  the 
country  of  "  blotches  rankling,  coloured  gay  and  grim," 
until  we  arrive  at  the  mountains: 

"  Those  two  hills  on  the  right, 

Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight; 
While  to  the  left  a  tall  scalped  mountain " 


62  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

and  perceive  suddenly,  as  he  did,  the  "  Dark  Tower" 
itself: 

"  The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart," 

Our  own  nerves  quiver  in  creepy  and  sympathetic  sus- 
pense as  Roland,  dauntless  and  provocative,  sets  the 
slug-horn  to  his  lips  and  blows: 

"  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came  !  " 

So,  too,  we  live  over  with  Guinevere  her  passionate  and 
guilty  tragedy,  from 

"  The  golden  days 

In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Launcelot  came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest  man, 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure  (for  the  time 
Was  Maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was  dream'd), 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom," 

to  those  last  direful  days  when,  flying  from  the  conse- 
quences of  her  sin,  she  seeks  asylum  in  "  the  holy  house 
at  Almesbury,"  and  one  day  hears  through  the  sombre 
cloisters  the  dread,  whispered  word,  "  The  King!  " 

"  She  sat 

Stiff-stricken,  listening ;  but  when  armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she  fell, 
And  grovel  I'd  with  her  face  against  the  floor : 
There  with  her  milk-white  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the  King : 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 
Pause  by  her." 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  63 

But  it  is  not  only  thus  abstractly,  upon  the  progres- 
sion of  its  themes,  that  poetry  moves.  It  has  further  a 
Motion  of  specific,  concrete  vibration  within  the  measured 
rhythm  and  bar;  a  vibration  which  imparts  to  the  ear  a  I. 

greater   or   less   sense   of   velocity  correlative 
with  the  rhythm,  metre,  and  manner  employed. 

In  the  famous  Virgilian  line: 

"  Quadrupedante  putrem  sonitu  quatit  ungula  campum  " 

we  are  aware  of  the  galloping  of  the  horse,  not  so  much 
because  the  poet  informs  us  that 

"  He  shakes  the  quivering  earth  with  the  four-footed  bound  of 
the  hoofs," 

as  because,  in  the  rapid  beat  of  the  dactylic  measure — 
I,  2,  3;  I,  2,  3;  I,  2,  3;  I,  2,  3;  I,  2,  3;  I,  2— there  is 
the  verisimilitude  of  the  clatter  of  galloping  horsehoofs. 
Furthermore,  there  is,  in  the  accelerated  vibration  of  the 
triple  beat,  a  rush,  a  vigour,  a  sense  of  onward  movement, 
very  distinct  and  dynamic. 

We  perceive  this  sense  of  velocity  even  more  clearly 
in  the  short,  crisp  lines  of  the  "  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade  ": 

"  Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
'  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 

Charge  for  the  guns  ! '  he  said : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 


64  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. ' ' 

Should  we  feel  the  breathless  impact  of  this  poem  if  it 
were  cast,  for  example,  in  heroic  blank  verse,  or  in  the 
2/4  measure  of ' '  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone  "  ?  I  think 
not.  For  it  is  in  the  rhythmic  rush,  quite  as  much  as  in 
the  words,  that  the  impression  is  conveyed  to  the  imag- 
ination. The  technical  movement  of  a  poem  has  then 
not  a  little  to  do  wilh  the  impression  which  it  makes 
upon  us;  and  this  sense  of  the  movement  in  verse  varies 
with  the  varying  metre  and  rhythm  of  the  numbers, 
sources  of  The  primal  source  of  motion  in  verse  is  to 
.-  motion  j^  found  {n  rhythm. 

A  second,  lesser,  source  of  motion  is  found  in  the  direct 
attack;  which,  as  has  already  been  pointed  out,  has  a 
strong  propulsive  force,  and  seems,  as  it  were,  to  launch 
the  verse  out  into  the  deeps. 

A  third,  still  lesser,  source  of  motion  is  found  in  the 
feminine  ending ;  the  second,  or  unaccented  syllable, 
giving  a  little  back  swing,  like  that  of  a  pendulum. 

The  feminine  ending  is  the  ending  of  a  verse  of  poetry 
with  the  non-accent,  or  second  beat  in  the  bar;  &?>  pleasure, 
Feminine  treasure ;  dying,  crying;  faster,  'vaster ;  etc. 
ending  jt  js  so  caned  jn  contradistinction  to  the  mas- 

culine ending,  which  is  upon  an  accent — either  a  mono- 
syllable or  the  accented  final  syllable  of  a  polysyllable, — 
the  first  beat  in  the  bar.  Two  words  may  be  used  instead 
of  a  dissyllable,  in  which  case  it  is  called,  not  the  fem- 
inine ending,  but  the  double  ending.  If  the  endings  are 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  65 

rhymed,  they  are  designated  as  feminine,  or  double 
rhymes ;  if  imrhymed,  merely  as  endings. 

The  feminine  ending  is  a  wonderful  factor  in  relieving 
metric  monotony  and  producing  melodic  and  motive  con- 
trast; but  it  must  be  used  with  discretion,  or  it  is  liable 
to  produce,  upon  the  English  ear,  a  cloying  effect.  In 
many  of  Longfellow's  poems,  Moore's,  and  Byron's,  we 
may  observe  instances  of  its  possibilities  of  effeminacy. 
It  seems  used  without  object,  and  merely  to  tickle  the 
ear,  becoming  an  idle  melodic  tinkle.  Professor  Corson 
has  pointed  out  the  fact  that  Byron,  whenever  he  wishes 
to  express  the  trivial  or  the  grotesque,  lapses  into  it.  £ 

Thus: 

"  Sweet  is  the  vintage  when  the  showering  grapes 

In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth, 
Purple  and  gushing ;  sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  : 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps, 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birth, 
Sweet  is  revenge — especially  to  women, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

"  Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 

The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady 
Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who've  made  '  us  youth  '  wait  too — too  long  already 
For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country  seat, 

Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady 
That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 
Next  owner  for  their  double-damned  post-obits." 

— "  DON  JUAN,"  canto  i.,  stanzas  124,  125. 

There  is,  however,  nothing  intrinsically  meretricious  in 
the  feminine  ending;  quite  the  contrary.  In  the  hands 

5 


66  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

of  a  master,  it  can  be  made  to  give  out  nothing  but 
strains  of  pure  beauty.  Browning,  more  than  any  other 
poet,  has  exploited  the  feminine  ending,  and  has  handled 
it  with  "  imperial  grace." 

The  2-beat  rhythm  has  less  internal  vibration,  there- 
fore less  motion,  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  3-beat  rhythm. 
Purely  ethical  poets — poets  of  a  contemplative  order,  cold 
and  without  passional  fires — affect  it  chiefly  and  make 
imperfect,  if  any,  use  of  the  more  motive  3-beat  rhythm. 
We  cannot  turn  the  pages  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Arnold,  Emerson,  without  recognising  this  to  be  the 
chief  resource  of  their  muse.  It  is  the  full-rounded 
artists,  whose  inspiration  runs  the  whole  gamut  of  human 
experience,  who  have  discovered  and  utilised  the  cadence 
variety  possible  to  the  3-beat  rhythm. 

Generally  speaking,  we  might,  therefore,  characterise 
Poetry  of  the  2-beat  rhythm  as  the  medium  of  the  Poetry 
Tnd^oetry  °f  Reflection;  and  the  3-beat  rhythm  as 
of  motion  more  specifically  the  medium  of  the  Poetry 
of  Motion. 

The  noblest  expression  of  2-beat  rhythm  is  to  be  found 
in  strict  2/5  verse,  or  the  line  of  five  bars  with  two  beats 
to  the  bar.  It  is  always  dignified,  while  shorter  metrical 
divisions  may  be  trivial,  and  longer  are  awkward  for  long- 
sustained  themes.  In  blank  verse — the  medium  best 
suited  to  heroic  themes — it  reaches  its  greatest  elevation, 
and  also  its  most  elastic  presentment ;  because,  blank 
verse  not  being,  strictly  speaking,  song,  but  rather  a 
species  of  recitative,  it  admits  of  greater  irregularity  of 
notation  than  is  possible  within  the  close  stanza.1 

"  The  Italians  called  it  stanza,  as  if  we  should  say  a  resting-place." — 
PUTTENHAM  :  "Art  of  English  Poesie." 

"  So  named  from  the  stop  or  halt  at  the  end  of  it.  Cognate  with  Eng- 
lish stand"— SKEATS'S  "Etymological  Dictionary." 


DIFFERENTIATED   MOTION  67 


stateHness  or^mary  heroic  quatrain  is  stately,  but, 

of  heroic        long  continued,  bears  a  certain  stamp  of  mo- 
notony. 

"  Still  doth  the  soul,  from  its  lone  fastness  high, 
Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send  ; 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we  die, 
And  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end." 

—  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  :  "  Palladium." 


This  stanza,  because  of  its  common  selection  for  elegy, 
is  known  in  English  as  the  elegiac  stanza.  It  must  not 
be  confounded  with  the  classical  elegiac  verse. 

In  the  Spenserian  stanza,  with  the  varied  rhyme- 
melody  and  the  stately  rounding  of  the  final  Alexan- 
drine, we  have  a  noble  verse-form. 

The  stanza  of  Shelley's  "  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  "— 
bits  of  Italian  terza  rima,  separated  at  regular  intervals 
into  stanzas  by  a  rhymed  couplet — is  felicitous  and  beau- 
tiful. 

There  are  plenty  of  other  beautiful  variants  of  2/5  verse 
— some  with  the  break  of  an  occasional  shorter  line,  like 
Keats's  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,"  Arnold's  "  Scholar 
Gypsy,"  etc.,  but  the  reader  will  easily  find  them  for 
himself. 

Of  all  the  metric  forms  we  have,  the  strict  2/4  verse 
_.  ,  (verse  of  four  bars  of  two  beats  to  the  bar) 

Monotony         x  ' 

of  common     has   the   least    internal    music.      Its   cadences 
are  tame  and  flat,  with  an   inevitable  aroma 
of  monotony. 

The  feeblest  of  all  vehicles  for  poetic  expression  is, 
perhaps,  the  quatrain  of  alternating  lines  of  2/4  and 

2/3-1 

1  Known  in  the  hymn  books  as  common  metre. 


68  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  I  travel  I'd  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea  j 
Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee." 
— WORDSWORTH  :  "  I  Travell'd  among  Unknown  Men." 

Verse  in  this  form  runs  great  danger  of  degenerating 
into  the  utterly  commonplace,  and  ringing  out,  not 
poetry,  but  the  mere  sing-song  of  a  nursery  jingle.  We 
get  more  music  in  Tennyson's  "  Brook/'  where  the  addi- 
tion of  the  feminine  ending  seems  to  give  it  a  fresh  swing, 
and  imparts  to  it  a  terminal  ripple  eminently  suggestive. 

"  I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley." 

A  shorter  line — 2/3  or  even  2/2 — has  more  movement, 
owing  perhaps  to  the  rapid  succession  of  metric  divisions. 

"  When  spring  comes  laughing 

By  vale  and  hill, 
By  wind-flower  walking 

And  daffodil, — 
Sing  stars  of  morning, 
Sing  morning  skies, 
Sing  blue  of  speedwell, 
And  my  Love's  eyes." 
— AUSTIN  DOBSON  :  "  A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons." 

Let  us  now  examine  and  see  how  we  can,  as  it  were, 
HOW  to  build  build  up  motion  in  the  2/4  quatrain.  We  will 
up  motion  take  a  serjes  Of  progressive  examples  in  verse- 
motion  to  show  the  larger  and  larger  rhythmic  swing 
possible. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  69 

"  Art  thou  a  statesman,  in  the  van 
Of  public  business  train' d  and  bred  ? 
First  learn  to  love  one  living  man  ! 
Then  mayst  thou  think  upon  the  dead." 

— WORDSWORTH  :  "  A  Poet's  Epitaph." 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  him,  who  all  the  week 

Through  city  crowds  must  push  his  way, 
To  stroll  alone  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath  day." 

— COLERIDGE  :  "  Homesick." 

"  Thy  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 
Repeats  the  music  of  the  rain ; 
But  sweeter  rivers  pulsing  flit 
Through  thee,  as  thou  through  Concord  Plain." 

— EMERSON  :  "  Two  Rivers." 

"  Like  driftwood  spars,  which  meet  and  pass 
Upon  the  boundless  ocean-plain, 
So  on  the  sea  of  life,  alas  ! 
Man  meets  man — meets,  and  quits  again." 

—ARNOLD  :  "  The  Terrace  at  Berne." 

This  verse  certainly  moves  upon  a  dead  level  of  utter 
monotony.  But  the  direct  attack  will  give  it  fresh  im- 
pulse. 

"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine." 

—TENNYSON:  "  The  Vision  of  Sin." 

With  both  the  direct  attack  and  the  feminine  ending, 
we  get  still  more  motion. 


70  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  '  Guidarello  Guidarelli  ! ' 

Rang  the  cry  from  street  and  tower, 
As  our  Guido  rode  to  battle 
.    In  Ravenna's  darkest  hour." 
— S.  WEIR  MITCHELL:  "  Guidarello  Guidarelli." 

In  the  beautiful  little  spinning  song  given  below,  we 
seem  to  get  the  acme  of  motion  possible  to  2-beat  verse. 
It  is  achieved  partly  by  the  use  of  the  direct  attack  and 
alternate  feminine  endings,  but  a  great  deal  by  the  effect 
of  the  long  swinging  line.  One  seems  to  catch  the  very 
whir  of  the  wheel. 

"  Moon  in  heaven's  garden,  among  the  clouds  that  wander, 
Crescent  moon  so  young  to  see,  above  the  April  ways, 
Whiten,  bloom  not  yet,  not  yet,  within  the  twilight  yonder ; 
All  my  spinning  is  not  done,  for  all  the  loitering  days. 

"  Oh,  my  heart  has  two  wild  wings  that  ever  would  be  flying  ! 
Oh,  my  heart's  a  meadow  lark  that  ever  would  be  free  ! 
Well  it  is  that  I  must  spin  until  the  light  be  dying ; 
Well  it  is  the  little  wheel  must  turn  all  day  for  me  !  " 

— JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY  :  "  Spinning  in  April." 

Many  poets  have  employed  the  2/4  verse  in  rhymed 
couplets  for  long  poems,  but  it  seems  an  inadequate 
Use  of  the  measure  for  sustained  action.  It  has  not  the 
short  coup-  staying  power  of  the  heroic  verse,  and  the  lim- 
ited swing  of  the  shorter  line  renders  the  con- 
stantly recurring  rhyme  tiresome  and  mechanical,  like 
the  clip  clip  of  a  woodman's  hatchet  chopping  a  fagot 
into  lengths.  Wordsworth  has  written  "  The  White  Doe 
of  Rylstone  "  and  other  poems  in  it;  Byron  has  used  it 
extensively ;  and  Scott  has  cast  most  of  his  longer  poems 
in  it.  He  probably  used  this  measure  because,  like  Byron 
and  other  young  men  of  that  day,  he  was  much  under 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  7 1 

the  ascendency  of  Wordsworth.  Scott's  diction  is,  how- 
ever, bold  and  ringing;  and  the  interspersion,  at  inter- 
vals, of  the  shorter  2/3  line  seems  to  divide  the  text 
roughly  into  stanzas,  and  gives,  as  it  were,  a  breathing 
space.  But  at  best  it  is  a  poor  vehicle  beside  2/5  verse, 
and  all  of  these  poems  would  have  gained  in  dignity  and 
power  had  they  been  cast  in  blank  verse,  or  even  in  heroic 
rhymed  couplets. 

Scott's  instincts  were  those  of  the  true  artist,  but  his 
muse  was  too  facile  for  a  nature  not  self-exacting,  and  he 
suffered,  like  Byron,  from  too  universal  a  popularity  and 
absence  of  criticism  to  achieve  the  highest  artistic  results. 

Neither  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  nor  Emerson  was  a 
metric  artist  of  a  high  order.  Arnold  was  artistically 
much  greater,  yet,  it  seems  to  me,  not  really  great.  His 
critical  judgment  of  what  art  should  be  certainly  exceeds 
that  of  any  person,  yet  in  his  own  work  he  made  use  of 
a  very  limited  number  of  forms,  and  easily  lapses  into  a 
monotonous  2/4  measure. 

Let  us  examine  now  how  Tennyson — a  past-master  of 
artistic  technique — handled  the  2-beat  rhythm.  Tenny- 
Tennyson's  son's  use  °f  heroic  verse  is  always  pure,  ele- 
use  of  2-beat  vated,  and  resonant.  He  was  opulent  of  re- 
source and  sure  of  touch.  His  use  of  forms  is 
never  a  lottery  as  with  lesser  craftsmen.  Whatever 
effects  of  rhythm  or  melody  he  employs,  it  is  always  with 
distinct  and  unerring  purpose.  For  dignity,  melody,^ 
fluidity,  enjambement?  and  perfect  caesural  balance,  his 
blank  verse  is  virtually  beyond  criticism.  It  will  be 
treated  more  at  large  in  a  future  chapter,  and  we  will 
confine  ourselves  here  to  an  analysis  of  some  of  his  lyric 
forms.  He  employs  2/4  verse  very  little  in  its  baldest 

1  Enjambement.     Running  of  a  verse  into  the  next  line  to  complete  the 


72  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

shape,  but,  when  he  does  do  so,  he  contrives  to  endow 
it  with  some  subtle  virtue  of  melody.  More  often  we 
find  variants,  as  in  "  Mariana." 

"  With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all  \ 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange : 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  *  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not/  she  said; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! '  " 

Here  we  have  a  stanza  composed  of  three  quatrains; 
the  first,  in  ordinary  strict  2/4  measure  with  alternating 
rhyme ;  the  second,  with  the  first  and  fourth  lines  rhymed, 
the  two  central  ones  rhyming  together  (this  variation 
alone  is  a  refreshment  to  the  ear) ;  and  in  the  third  (again 
an  alternating  quatrain),  the  second  and  fourth  lines  are 
shortened  a  bar,  while  the  first  and  third  carry  the  femi- 
nine ending.  Yet  so  homogeneous  is  the  stanza  that 
the  ordinary  reader  would  not  be  aware  that  the  metrical 
scheme  was  not  uniform  throughout. 

In  this  song  from  "  The  Miller's  Daughter" — not  a 
quatrain,  by  the  way,  but  a  sestet — note  the  sweet  insist- 
ence of  the  rhyme. 

"  Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  so." 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  73 

Here  we  have  the  impulse  of  the  direct  attack,  and  the 
pretty  touch  of  the  little  half-phrase,  like  a  sighing  echo, 
at  the  end. 

In  "  The  Lady  of  Shalott  "  we  have  the  same  melodic 
idea  of  repeated  rhyme ;  but  the  stanza  is  divided  with 
central  and  terminal  rhymes,  the  last  line  being  short- 
ened to  2/3,  which  rounds  it  well  off.  This  poem  is  an 
example  of  free  verse,  somewhat  rare,  and  difficult  to  do 
well,  in  2-beat  rhythm. 

"  On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower 'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott." 

And  in  this  song  from  "Maud"  what  an  ecstatic, 
spring-like  lilt  we  catch  in  the  direct  2/3  verse ! 

"  Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth." 

In  "  The  Two  Voices  "  we  have  three  uniform-rhymed 
lines.  This  gives  "  a  close  emphasised  stanza.  The 
poem  consists  in  a  great  part  of  a  succession  of  short, 


74  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

epigrammatic    arguments,   pro   and   con,    to   which   the 
stanza  is  well  adapted."  i 

"  A  still  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
'  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ? ' 

"  Then  to  the  still  small  ycjice  I  said : 
1  Let  me  not  %asf>ih  endte&  shade 
AVhat  is  so  wonderfully  made.' 

"  To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply: 
'  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"  '  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk:  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail.'  " 

In  "  The  Palace  of  Art,"  the  stanza  is  a  quatrain  of 
which  the  first  line  is  2/5  verse;  the  second,  2/4  verse; 
the  third,  again  2/5  verse ;  and  the  fourth  drops  into  the 
still  shorter  2/3  verse. 

"  One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red — a  tract  of  sand, 

With  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

"  One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

"  And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 

With  shadow-streaks  of  rain." 
1  HIRAM  CORSON  :  "  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  chap,  vi.,  p.  78. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  75 

Of  this  stanza  Peter  Bayne  says,  "It  is  novel,  and  it 
is  only  by  degrees  that  its  exquisite  adaptation  to  the 
style  and  thought  of  the  poem  is  perceived.  The  ear 
instinctively  demands  in  the  second  and  fourth  lines  a 
body  of  sound  not  much  less  than  that  of  the  first  and 
third;  but  in  Tennyson's  stanza,  the  fall  in  the  fourth 
line  is  complete;  the  body  of  sound  in  the  second  and 
fourth  lines  is  not  nearly  sufficient  to  balance  that  in  the 
first  and  third ;  the  consequence  is  that  the  ear  dwells  on 
the  alternate  lines,  especially  on  the  fourth,  stopping 
there  to  listen  to  the  whole  verse,  to  gather  up  its  whole 
sound  and  sense.  I  do  not  know  whether  Tennyson  ever 
contemplated  scientifically  the  effect  of  this.  I  should 
think  it  far  more  likely,  and  indicative  of  far  higher 
genius,  that  he  did  not.  But  no  means  could  be  con- 
ceived for  setting  forth  to  more  advantage  those  separate 
pictures,  '  each  a  perfect  whole,'  which  constitute  so  great 
a  portion  of  the  poem."  1 

Most  writers  agree  that,  as  an  adaptation  of  means  to 
ends,  no  stanza  is  more  felicitous  than  that  employed  in 
"  In  Memoriam."  A  certain  elegiac  monotony — a  minor 
key  of  verse — being  desired,  it  is  found  in  the  2/4  quat- 
rain, not  in  its  usual  form  of  alternating  rhymes,  but  with 
the  two  central  lines  rhymed,  the  first  line  waiting  for  its 
complement  until  the  last.2 

"  By  the  rhyme-scheme  of  the  quatrain,  the  terminal 
rhyme  emphasis  of  the  stanza  is  reduced,  the  second  and 
third  verses  being  the  most  clearly  braced  by  the  rhyme. 
The  stanza  is  thus  admirably  adapted  to  that  sweet  con- 

1  See  "  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  p.  81. 

3  "  This  stanza  is  not  original  with  Tennyson,  Ben  Jonson  having  em- 
ployed it  in  an  elegy  in  his  '  Underwoods  ;  '  and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti, 
just  before  'In  Memoriam'  appeared,  in  'My  Sister's  Sleep.'" — HIRAM 
CORSON  :  "  A  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  p.  70. 


76  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

tinuity  of  flow,  free  from  abrupt  checks,  demanded  by 
the  spiritualised  sorrow  which  it  bears  along.  Alternate 
rhyme  would  have  wrought  an  entire  change  in  the  tone 
of  the  poem."  * 

"  Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

"  The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 
In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

"  The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 

The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 
111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

"  From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odour  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 
A  hundred  spirits  whisper  '  Peace.'  " 

The  3-beat  rhythm  is  instinct  with  motion.  It  has  an 
inherent  bounding  swiftness  which  the  2-beat  rhythm 
Mobile  entirely  lacks.  It  runs,  it  leaps,  it  laughs,  it 

3?beaty°  fl*es>  it:  gallops;  therefore  poets  have  instinct- 
rhythm  ively  selected  it  as  the  vehicle  of  their  most 
fervid  thought.  Wherever  rapid  or  passionate  action  is 
to  be  expressed,  it  will  be  found  a  most  effective  me- 
dium. '  The  good  news  "  is  carried  from  Ghent  to  Aix 
upon  it;  Pheidippides  runs  in  it;  the  Light  Brigade 
charges  to  it;  the  Sea  Fairies  dance  to  it;  the  pace  of 

1  HIRAM  CORSON  :  "  A  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  chap,  vi.,  p.  70. 


DIFFERENTIATED   MOTION  77 

Arethusa's  melodious  flight  is  tuned  to  it;  and  upon  its 
numbers  a  thousand  imperishable  love  lyrics  breathe  out 
their  impassioned  music. 

With  the  resource  of  invention,  such  as  we  know  it 
to-day,  the  3-beat  rhythm  seems  to  be  a  very  late  devel- 
Absence  of  opment.  In  the  centuries  preceding  ours  it 
triple  move-  appears  conspicuous  by  its  absence.  The  Eliz- 
Eiizabethan  abethans  seem  not  to  have  been  acquainted 
poetry  with  it,  or  certainly  never  to  have  used  it  con- 

sciously; another  proof,  if  any  were  needed,  of  how  en- 
tirely free  the  technique  of  the  Renaissance  literature  was 
from  any  influence  from  the  classics.  They  had  the 
models  of  the  classic  dactyls  and  anapaests,  which  they 
might  have  imitated,  and  in  which  some  men — more 
pedants  than  creators — did  write;  but  it  never  became 
germane  to  the  language  and  left  no  permanent  imprint. 

Says  Edmund  Gosse,  "  The  dactylic  and  anapaestic 
movement  was  conspicuously  unknown  to  the  Eliza- 
bethans. I  purposely  take  no  note  here  of  the  experi- 
ments in  tumbling,  rimeless  measure  made  by  certain 
Elizabethans.  These  were  purely  exotic,  and,  even  in 
the  hands  of  Campion  himself,  neither  natural  nor  sue-  • 
cessful."1 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Fulke  Greville,  Gabriel  Harvey,  and 
others — even  the  most  melodious  Edmund  Spenser — pro- 
posed wild  schemes  for  bringing  English  verse  under  the 
restrictions  of  the  classic  laws  of  quantity.  Spenser 
seems,  however,  to  have  soon  recovered  from  his  "  arti- 
ficial fever,"  and,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Harvey,  he  ex- 
claims fervently:  "  Why,  a  God's  name,  may  not  we,  as 
else  the  Greeks,  have  the  kingdom  of  our  own  language, 
and  measure  our  accents  by  the  sound,  reserving  quantity 
to  the  verse? " 

1  EDMUND  GOSSE  :  "  From  Shakespeare  to  Pope,"  p.  9. 


:>  THE  M&SICAL  BASIS  Of  VE&SE 

The  tide  of  feeling  for  true  rhythmic  values  was  too 
strong  to  be  stemmed;  and  English  verse  went  on  its 
way  rejoicing,  taking  cognisance  neither  of  theory  nor 
theorist,  bat  singing  itself  out  according  to  its  own 
divine  instinct. 

Previous  to  Elizabeth  there  are  a  few  sporadic  traces 
of  3-beat  rhythm;  although  here,  too,  was  the  sugges- 
tion  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  verse,  which,  although 
[te  not  measured  by  syllables,  is  divided  into  cer- 
tain heavy  stresses,  resembling  an  imperfect 
triple  movement. 

There  is  a  very  old  comedy  entitled  "  Gammer  Gur- 
ton's  Needle "  (see  page  199  of  this  book)  in  which  is 
inserted  a  song — undoubtedly  much  older  than  the  play 
— the  chorus  of  which  has  a  distinct  triple  lilt. 

"  Back  and  side  go  bare,  30  bare, 
Both  hand  and  foot  go  cold; 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough 
Whether^  be  new  or  old." 

Lanier  gives  a  "  Song  of  Ever  and  Never,"  belonging 
to  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century;  and  "  The 
Battle  of  Agincourt,"  *  also  early  sixteenth  century,  both 
of  which  are  in  3-beat  measure,  and  may  be  older  than 
the  foregoing. 

*'  Agincoort,  Agincourt! 
Know  ye  not  Agincoort  ? 
Where  English  slue  and  hurt 

All  their  French  I oeroen  ? 
With  our  pikes  and  bills  brown, 
How  the  French  were  beat  downe, 
Shot  by  our  bowmen." 

JL,  Bale's  and  ForahalFs  "Bishop  Ptacy*s 

-•=--=:•--:'-=      -N  =  ..:_  =  J 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  79 

There  is  also  a  "  Battle  of  Agincourt"  by  Michael 
Drayton  (1563-1631)  which  may  have  been  imitated  from 
the  preceding.1 

"  Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  oar  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  potting  to  the  *"ai?», 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry." 

Shakespeare,  saturated  as  he  was  with  music,  ripples 
wonderfully  near  the  triple  rhythm,  and  occa- 
*    sionally  breaks,  for  a  few  exotic  bars,  into  the 

rhythm  tnie  lilt.       As: 

"  'Ban,  'Ban,  Ca— Caliban, 
Has  a  new  master — get  a  new  man." 

Yet  it  is  clear  it  has  no  part  in  his  intention  as  a  special 

form ;  and  the  only  plays  in  which  I  find  it  deliberately 

used  in  a  song  are  "  The  Winter's  Tale  "  and  "  Othello. 

Desdemona's  song  is  famous. 

"  The  poor  soul  sat  sighing  by  a  sycamore  tree, 

Sing  all  a  green  willow; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee, 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow : 
The  fresh  streams  ran  by  her,  ?nd  murmur*  d  her  mrem*  • 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow : 
Her  salt  tears  fell  from  her,  and  soften'd  the  stones;  " 


•  • 


8o  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

The  rhythmic  balance  is  here  not  perfectly  true,  for 
the  ear  loses  the  movement  in  the  refrain.  These  lines 
are  from  an  old  ballad  called  "  A  Lover's  Complaint, 
being  Forsaken  of  his  Love."  The  entire  ballad  is  given 
in  "  Percy's  Reliques."  There  it  is  the  plaint  of  a  man; 
Shakespeare  assigns  it  to  a  woman. 

The  other  songs  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  that  delight- 
ful vagabond,  Autolycus,  and  have  a  rollicking,  exuberant 
lilt. 

"  When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, — 

With  hey  !  the  doxy  over  the  dale, — 
Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year; 

For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale.'*' 

And  later  comes  the  jolly  catch: 

"  Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  footpath  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a: 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a."  ' 

'The  Winter's  Tale"  was  among  the  last  known 
works  to  leave  the  poet's  hand.  Had  he  lived  to  the 
ripe  age  of  a  Wordsworth  or  a  Tennyson,  it  is  very  possi- 
ble that  the  3-beat  rhythm  would  not  have  had  to  wait 
for  the  days  of  Waller  and  Cleveland  for  its  exposition. 

According  to  Mr.  Gosse,  Waller  seems  the  first  poet  to 

1 1  find  a  number  of  instances  of  single  couplets  throughout  the  dramas  ; 
also  a  portion  of  a  song  of  Silence's  in  the  second  part  of  "  Henry  IV," 
which  shows  rough  triple  rhythm.  The  fool's  catch  in  "  Lear,"  "  Have  more 
than  thou  showest,"  and  several  other  of  his  short  strains,  have  the  ring  of 
triple  time  ;  while  lago's  drinking  song  (one  stanza)  in  "  Othello,"  "  And 
let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink,"  is  quite  pure  in  movement.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  Desdemona's  song,  this  measure  seems  to  be  always  put  into  the 
mouths  of  rogues  or  clowns,  which  would  point  to  its  being  less  a  matter  of 
invention  than  a  reversion  to  the  refrains  of  thfe  people. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  81 

make  deliberate  use  of  the  triple  rhythm.  "  Up  to  his 
(Cleveland's)  time,  and  to  that  of  Waller,  the  triple  or 
Waiier  the  anapaestic  cadence,  which  is  now  so  familiar 
first  to  make  to  us>  ancj  which  the  facilities  of  its  use  have 
use  of  triple  even  vulgarised,  had  not  been  used  at  all.  The 
rhythm  great  Elizabethan  poets  had  achieved  their 
marvellous  effects  without  its  ever  occurring  to  them 
that  they  had  at  their  elbow  a  dancing  or  lilting  cadence 
which  the  very  ballads  of  the  peasantry  might  have  re- 
vealed to  them.  .  .  .  Shakespeare,  of  course,  in 
such  songs  as  '  Come  away,  come  away,  Death/  1  glides 
into  the  triple  cadence;  and  so,  as  my  friend  Coventry 
Patmore  points  out,  does  the  early  Elizabethan,  Phaer, 
in  his  version  of  the  '  ^Eneid.'  I  have  remarked  an- 
other instance  in  a  ballad  of  Bishop  Corbet's.  But  these 
felicities  were  the  result  either  of  accident  or,  in  the  case 
of  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  of  an  art  above  art.  .  .  . 
In  Waller's  1645  volume  of  poems  there  is  a  copy  of 
verses  called  '  Chloris  and  Hilas,'  which  is  written  in  fal- 
tering but  unmistakable  dactyls.  Waller,  long  after- 
wards, said  that  it  was  composed  to  imitate  the  motions 
of  a  Sarabande.  Here  are  portions  of  it,  those  in  which 
the  triple  cadence  is  most  audible: 

"  *  Hilas,  O  Hilas,  why  sit  we  mute 

Now  that  each  bird  saluteth  the  spring  ? 
Wind  up  the  slackened  strings  of  thy  lute, 
Never  canst  thou  want  matter  to  sing  ! 

"  '  Sweetest,  you  know  the  sweetest  of  things, 
Of  various  flowers  the  bees  do  compose, 
Yet  no  particular  taste  it  brings 

Of  violet,  woodbine,  pink  or  rose.'  " 

*I  have  already  shown   in  chap.    ii.  that    "Come  away,    come  away, 
Death  "  is  not  true  triple  rhythm. 
6 


82  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Waller  would  seem  to  have  hit  upon  this  movement 
"  almost  by  chance,  by  his  surprising  quickness  of  ear," 
Cleveland's  and  not  to  have  prosecuted  the  experiment. 
triple*  "  Cleveland,  on  the  other  hand,  deliberately 

rhythm  studied,  not  once,  but  repeatedly,  anapaestic 
effects  of  a  really  very  delicate  kind.  The  first  edition 
of  Cleveland's  poems  was  published  in  1647;  but  on  this 
we  can  build  no  theory  of  Waller's  priority  of  compo- 
sition. Born  eight  years  earlier  than  Cleveland,  Waller 
is  likely  to  have  been  first  in  the  field.  But  as  Cleve- 
land's lyrical  poems  are,  I  believe,  practically  unknown, 
even  to  scholars,  and  as  this  point  of  the  introduction 
of  the  triple  cadence  is  one  of  greatest  interest,  I  will 
quote  one  or  two  examples.  In  a  strange,  half-mad, 
indecorous  lyric  called  '  Mark  Anthony,'  I  find  these 
lines: 

"  '  When  as  the  nightingale  chanted  her  vespers, 

And  the  wild  forester  crouched  on  the  ground ; 
Venus  invited  me  in  th1  evening  whispers 
Unto  a  fragrant  field  with  roses  crowned.' 

"  This  drags  a  little;  but  the  intention  is  incontestable. 
This  is  better: 

. 

'  Mystical  grammar  of  amourous  glances, 
Feeling  of  pulses,  the  physic  of  love, 
Rhetorical  courtings  and  musical  dances, 
Numb' ring  of  kisses  arithmetic  prove.' 

"  Another  poem,  called '  Square-Cap,'  evidently  written 
at  Cambridge  in  the  author's  undergraduate  days,  gives 
us  a  totally  distinct  variety  of  the  anapaestic1  cadence: 

1  Mr.  Gosse's  use  of  "  anapaest"  and  "  dactyl  "  is  purely  conventional, 
for  none  of  these  poems  are  strictly  either. 


DIFFERENTIATED   MOTION  83 

"  '  Come  hither  Apollo's  bouncing  girl, 

And  in  a  whole  Hippocrene  of  sherry, 
Let's  drink  a  round  till  our  brains  do  whirl, 

Tuning  our  pipes  to  make  ourselves  merry; 
A  Cambridge  lass,  Venus-like,  bora  of  the  froth 
Of  an  old  half-filled  jug  of  barley-broth, 

She,  she  is  my  mistress,  her  suitors  are  many, 
But  she'll  have  a  square-cap  if  e'er  she  have  any.' 

'  There  is  quite  a  ring  of  John  Byrom  or  of  Shenstone 
in  these  last  lines,  the  precursors  of  so  much  that  has 
pleased  the  ear  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  cen- 
turies." l 

Towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  we  find 
a  formal  triple  movement  coming  more  and  more  into 
Eighteenth-  use,  and,  by  the  early  part  of  this  century, 
tripicry  becoming  quite  general.  Scott,  Campbell, 
rhythm  Moore,  Byron,  and  a  host  of  their  contempora- 
ries used  it  freely,  but  still  in  somewhat  mechanical  num- 
bers. For  it  is  the  nice  adjustment  of  prolonged  syllables 
and  of  pause  effects  which  make  the  balance  of  melody 
in  3-beat  verse. 

Steady,  full  bars,  unless  used,  as  by  Victorian  poets, 
for  a  distinct  impressional  purpose,  become  wearisome 
to  the  ear.  Here  are  a  few  typical  strains. 

"  When  forced  the  fair  nymph  to  forego, 
What  anguish  I  felt  at  my  heart ! 
Yet  I  thought — but  it  might  not  be  so — 
'Twas  with  pain  that  she  saw  me  depart. 
She  gazed  as  I  slowly  withdrew ; 
My  path  I  could  scarcely  discern  : 
So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 
I  thought  that  she  bade  me  return.'"' 

— WILLIAM  SHENSTONE  :  "  Absence." 
1  EDMUND  GOSSE  :  "  From  Shakespeare  to  Pope  : — The  Reaction." 


84  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  Would  my  Delia  know  if  I  love,  let  her  take 
My  last  thought  at  night  and  the  first  when  I  wake ; 
When  my  prayers  and  best  wishes  preferred  for  her  sake. 

"  Let  her  guess  what  I  muse  on,  when,  rambling  alone, 
I  stride  o'er  the  stubble  each  day  with  my  gun, 
Never  ready  to  shoo't  till  the  covey  is  flown. 

"  Let  her  think  what  odd  whimsies  I  have  in  my  brain, 
When  I  read  one  page  over  and  over  again, 
And  discover  at  last  that  I  read  it  in  vain." 

— WILLIAM  COWPER  :  "  The  Symptoms  of  Love." 

"  Come,  rest  on  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer ! 

Tho'  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here, 
Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  the  heart  and  the  hand,  all  thine  own  to  the  last. 

"  Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the  same 
Thro'  joy  and  thro'  torments,  thro'  glory  and  shame  ? 
I  know  not — I  ask  not — if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art." 

— THOMAS  MOORE  :  "  Come  Rest  on  this  Bosom." 

These  are  certainly  elementary,  and  full  of  what  Car- 
lyle  calls  "  a-  rocking-horse  canter."  They  also  strike 
Nineteenth-  a  false  note  in  sentiment,  which  makes  the  mat- 
trtpiery  ter  worse'  The  following,  though  the  same 
rhythm  in  metrical  method,  is  more  elevated,  because 
more  genuine,  and  has  the  touch  of  the  Byronic  fire  of 
diction. 

lt  The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  85 

"  Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown." 

— BYRON  :  "  The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib." 

And   in    the    following — metrically   more    compact — we 
sweep  truly  melodious  chords: 

\  v  N 

"  Since  our  Country,  our  God — O  my  Sire  ! 

Demand  that  thy  daughter  expire ; 

Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow — 

Strike  the  bosom  that's  bared  for  thee  now ! 

"  And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more : 
If  the  hand  chat  I  love  lay  me  low, 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow." 

— BYRON  :  "  Jephtha's  Daughter.11 

Byron,  though  he  lacked  the  spiritual  ideal  necessary 
to  the  making  of  the  greatest  of  poets,  was  a  brilliant 
artist,  a  master  of  technique. 

Shelley,  who  drank  infinitely  deeper  from  the  fountains 
of  true  inspiration  than  his  contemporaries,  has  given  us 
beautiful  music  in  triple  movement,  but  none  more 
motive  and  sparkling  than  his  "  Arethusa,"  a  direct  pre- 
cursor of  some  of  the  perfected  motion  of  our  own  time. 

"  Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 

From  cloud  and  from  crag, 

With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 


86  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams ; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams  : 

And  gliding  and  springing 

She  went,  ever  singing 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep. 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 
As  she  lingered  toward  the  deep." 

— SHELLEY  :  "  Arethusa." 

But  none  of  the  Georgian  poets  ever  wholly  fathomed 
the  music  of  the  3-beat  rhythm — such  varied  cadences  as 
The  erfect  we  §et  *n  "  Break,  Break,  Break  "  ;  "  Cool  and 
triple  move-  Clear";  "Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud"; 

cTmei°nly  and  a  host  of  other  ty1^8-  This  crowning 
withvicto-  achievement  remained  for  the  masters  of  the 
Victorian  era;  and  such  consummate  handling 
of  it  have  they  given  us,  and  some — notably  Tennyson 
and  Browning — have  so  played  upon  this  triple  rhythm, 
in  such  an  infinity  of  metrical  combinations,  that  it  would 
almost  seem  as  if  art  could  go  no  farther. 

In  triple  rhythm  the  line  of  four  bars  is  not  open  to 
the  same  objection  as  in  2-beat  rhythm,  and  has  not  that 
suggestion  of  thinness  and  monotony.  The  fuller  bars 
— for,  whether  represented  by  the  full  complement  of 
notes,  or  by  notes  and  pauses,  the  bar  is  fuller — give  in 
effect  a  body  of  sound  equivalent  to  a  longer  line  of  the 
other  rhythm.  In  fact  a  very  long  line  in  triple  rhythm 
is  not  perfectly  easy  to  handle  well,  and  requires  the  most 
perfect  caesural  balance  to  present  to  the  ear  a  sense  of 
harmonious  unity. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  87 

We  find  lines  of  3/4  and  3/3  the  commonest  and  most 
Examples  of  easily  satisfactory  presentment  of  this  rhythm, 
perfect  \  give,  from  modern  verse,  a  few  illustrative 
rhythm  examples  of  developed  triple  rhythm. 

"  Strong,  free,  with  a  regal  ease, 

Over  the  scrub  and  the  scrag, 
His  nostrils  spread  to  the  spicy  breeze, 
Bounds  the  majestic  stag. 

"  He  tosses  his  head  with  the  antlers  wide 
Till  he  sweeps  his  loin  with  the  horn; 
Splendid  he  is  in  his  power  and  pride, 
Beautiful  in  his  scorn  ! 

"  What  shall  tire  him,  what  shall  break 

The  furious  rush  of  his  power  ? 

Lives  there  a  creature  can  overtake 

The  stag  in  his  sovereign  hour? 

"  Oh,  fierce,  fierce  is  that  strenuous  heat 

As  it  sweeps  from  holt  to  hollow ; 
But  fleet,  fleet  are  the  fateful  feet 

Of  the  unleashed  hounds  which  follow. 

"  Now,  on  a  bank  where  the  weeds  grow  rank, 

He  turns  as  the  death- pang  grips ; 
The  sweat  breaks  dank  from  his  quivering  flank, 
And  the  blood-foam  froths  his  lips." 

—JOHN  BASS  :  "  The  Hunting  of  the  Stag." 

The  free  verse  of  this  poem  is  admirably  adapted  to  its 
rushing  spirit,  and  the  strain  springs  loosely  and  buoyantly 
along.  The  prolonged  syllables  are  specially  effective. 
Observe  that  the  words  strong  (first  stanza),  fierce  and 
fleet  (fourth  stanza)  are  held  through  the  bar — three  whole 
beats.  This  gives  a  momentary  reining-in  effect,  after 
which  the  full  bars  seem  to  bound  recklessly  forward. 


88  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

This  same  elastic  measure  lends  itself  wonderfully  to 
the  vivid  numbers  of  one  of  our  great  love-lyrics,  thus 
expressing  the  motion  of  passion.  In  the  first  stanza  the 
word  come  is  twice  held  through  the  bar,  giving  the  same 
pause-effect  as  in  the  preceding  example ;  after  which 
the  music  sweeps  in  with  rich,  balanced  cadences. 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

"  There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  '  She  is  near,  she  is  near ; ' 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  *  She  is  late ; ' 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  I  hear,  I  hear; ' 

And  the  lily  whispers,  '  I  wait.' 

"  She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red." 

—TENNYSON  :  ' '  Maud . "  l 

1  It  is  significant  that,  in  this  passionate  lyric-drama,  almost  every  single 
section  is  in  triple  measure,  as  though  the  fires  were  too  hot  for  anything 
less  vibratory. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  89 

The  next  two  quotations  are  examples  of  triple  rhythm 
as  expressing  rapid  motion.  The  impression  to  be  con- 
veyed to  the  ear  is  that  of  speed — superlative  speed ; — an 
impression  which  is,  by  means  of  the  full,  reiterated 
beats,  certainly  attained. 

"  I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 
'  Good  speed  !'  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 
'  Speed  ! '  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

"  Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit." 
— BROWNING  :  "  How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 
to  Aix." 

Here  again  we  have  the  galloping  hoof-beats,  only  even 
more  accentuated  by  the  short  line  closely  bound  by  the 
rhymes.  This  poem  is  in  strict  verse — advisedly  so. 
Free  verse  could  not  have  given  the  uniform  clang  of 
the  hoof-beats.  The  anacrusis  is  required  for  the  cumu- 
lative effect ;  and  so  vivid  is  the  verisimilitude  that  the 
reader  himself  becomes  the  actor,  and,  as  the  breathless 
periods  pile  up,  finds  himself  rushing,  break-neck,  through 
the  sleeping  towns,  to  drop — exhausted  but  triumphant — 
in  the  market-place  at  Aix. 

Here  is  another  example  of  speed. 

"  Archons  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,  see,  I  return! 
See,  'tis  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spectre  that  speaks  ! 


90  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Crowned   with   the  myrtle,  did   you    command   me,  Athens 

and  you, 

'  Run  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta  for  aid  ! 
Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She  ?  '     Your  command 

I  obeyed, 
Ran  and  raced :    like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire  runs 

through, 
Was  the  space  between  city  and  city  :  two  days,  two  nights  did 

I  burn 
Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 

"  Into  their  midst  I  broke  :  breath  served  but  for  *  Persia  has 

come  ! 

Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves' -tribute,  water  and  earth; 
Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria — but  Athens,   shall  Athens 

sink, 

Drop  into  dust  and  die — the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly  die, 
Die,  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta,  the  stupid,  the 

stander-by  ? 
Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch  o'er 

destruction's  brink  ? 
How, — when  ?     No  care  for  my  limbs  ! — there's  lightning  in 

all  and  some — 

Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it  birth  ! '  " 

— BROWNING:  "Pheidippides." 

In  these  long  lines  we  have  the  panting  heats  of  the 
foot-racer.  Not  the  full,  uninterrupted  beats  of  the  gal- 
loping horse,  but  plenty  of  prolonged  syllables,  as  a  man 
might  draw  his  breath  irregularly,  slackening,  as  his  wind 
failed  a  little,  then  accelerating  once  more. 

The  next  two  poems  are  3-beat  rhythm  illustrative  of 
sea-motion.  The  first  has  already  been  given  in  another 
chapter  as  an  example  of  verse-notation ;  but  I  repeat  it 
here  because,  as  an  example  of  broken  motion,  I  know  of 
no  other  so  good. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  91 

"  Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

"  O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 
O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

"  And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish' d  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

"  Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me." 

— TENNYSON:  "Break,  Break,  Break." 

Almost  all  verse  may  be  regarded  as  legato  in  quality ; 
but  in  the  first  line  of  the  first  and  last  stanzas  of  this 
poem  we  get  a  graphic  staccato ;  one  syllable  (or  note) 
then  two  rests — short,  sharp,  incisive — the  very  impact 
of  breaking  surf.  With  the  second  stanza  comes  in  the 
legato  movement,  which  reaches  its  fullest  sweep  in  the 
last  two  lines  of  the  third  stanza.  Then,  in  a  fresh  burst 
of  grief,  once  more  the  sharp,  reiterated  staccato.  These 
repetitions  intensify  the  accent.  Two,  would  have  failed 
of  the  effect ;  four,  would  have  overdone  it.  Merely  as 
a  piece  of  technique,  and  quite  without  regard  to  its  lit- 
erary value,  I  know  of  nothing  more  organically  express- 
ive than  this  little  surf  song,  so  full  of  storm  and  stress, 
and  foiled  effort. 


92  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

In  the  next  poem  we  get  the  slow  swing  of  deep-sea 
rhythms. 

"  Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away ; 
Down  and  away  below  ! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

•  •  •      .       •  • 

"  Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 
Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 
On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  the  youngest  sat  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea; 
She  said :  '  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  grey  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 
'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah  me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman  !  here  with  thee.' 
I  said  :  '  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves  ; 
Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea-caves  ! ' 
She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay." 

— MATTHEW  ARNOLD  :  "  The  Forsaken  Merman." 

In  this  poem  we  get  a  distinct  impression  of  undula- 
tion;  not  the  restless  surface  agitation  of  comber  and 
surge  and  surf,  but  a  full,  fluid  movement,  suggestive  of 
great  sea  deeps,  where  the  long,  slow  swell  laps  the 
ledges  and  fringes  out  the  great  fronds  of  algae.  The 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  93 

triple  rhythm  gives,  of  course,  the  primary  motion ;  but 
the  undulatory  effect  is  due  to  the  metric  irregularity  of 
the  lines,  which,  uneven,  yet  rising  and  falling  with  per- 
fect caesural  balance,  reproduce  marvellously  the  irregular 
regularity  of  wave-motion, — the  sighing,  sounding,  surg- 
ing dithyrambs  of  the  sea. 

A  very  short  triple  rhythm  has  an  exuberant  play. 

"  Christmas  is  here  : 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we : 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree." 

—THACKERAY  :  "  The  Mahogany  Tree." 

Another  well-known  poem — one  of  luminous  aspiration 
— begins  with  the  same  metric  scheme,  but  sweeps  into 
larger  cadences.  Observe  that  the  3/4  lines  of  the  latter 
part  of  the  poem  simply  double  the  3/2  lines  of  the  first 
half;  but  this  sustained  sweep  at  the  end  gives  a  fulness 
and  dignity  which  the  short,  equal  metric  periods  of  the 
previous  poem  lack. 

"All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  tKrow 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 

My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue  ! 


94  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

\  \  \  \ 

Then  it  stops  like  a  bird ;  like  a  flower  hangs  furled;  j 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 

i  i  v 

What  matter  to  rite  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I  love  it." 

—BROWNING  :  "  My  Star." 

We  have  already  studied,  farther  back,  the  intense, 
rushing  movement  of  the  "  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade." 
Probably  no  poem  in  the  language  is  imbued  with  a  more 
concentrated  motion  than  this  one.  This  motion  is 
achieved  by  the  triple  rhythm,  by  the  direct  attack,  by 
the  feminine  cadences  of  the  rhyming  lines,  and,  last  but 
not  least,  by  the  short  line  with  its  incisive  caesural  effects. 
These  are  all  the  sources  of  verse-motion  focussed  into 
one  movement. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  "  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade"  was  modelled  upon  the  "Battle  of  Agin- 
court  "  ;x  but  that  such  a  master-craftsman  as  Tennyson 
should  consciously  imitate  anything  is  not  conceivable. 
The  probable  fact  is  that,  all  forms  and  all  possibilities 
of  forms  being  latent  in  his  mind,  when  the  theme  agi- 
tated and  heated  the  imagination,  that  form  instinctively 
presented  itself  which  should  most  adequately  express 
speed,  impetuous  impact,  and  emotional  fire. 

It  is  my  belief  that,  where  real  inspiration  is  present, 
form  is  virtually  self-selective;  for  there  is  a  deeper 
Formvir-  internal  relation  between  the  thought  and  its 
tuaiiyseif-  material  expression  than  the  passing  reader 
detects.  By  some  psychological  law,  not  yet 
clearly  understood,  but  which  we  may  class  as  a  law  of 

1  Those  who  are  interested  will  find  in  Sidney  Lanier's  "  Science  of  Eng- 
lish Verse,"  p.  175,  a  comparison  of  five  battle  songs,  from  the  seventh  to 
the  nineteenth  centuries,  in  which  is  traced  cleverly  the  fit  metric  analogy. 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  95 

sympathetic  vibration,  the  super-heated  thought1  corre- 
lates to  itself  words,  and  syntax  (the  construction  of 
sentences),  and  metric  forms,  which  are  best  suited  to 
embody  and  express  its  particular  spirit.  In  other  words 
it  correlates  to  itself  forms  of  harmonious  motion.  For 
in  the  heats  of  creation  matter  and  manner  become  one. 
Only  thus  may  we  explain  the  concrete  verisimilitude, 
the  wonderful  organic  correspondence,  between  form  and 
sense  which  we  find  in  all  the  deeply  true  poems  of  the 
world.  For  a  grave  thought,  a  solemn  adagio  measure ; 
for  a  delicate  or  rapid  conception,  an  equally  delicate  or 
rapid  movement.  Any  sacrifice  of  this  inherent  fitness 
destroys  the  vividness  of  the  impression.  One  could 
not,  for  example,  imagine  Shelley's  "  Skylark"2  cast  in 
the  elephant  paces  of  Whitman;  nor  Ariel's  aery  mes- 
sages hammered  out  in  the  Dryden  rhymed-couplet. 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  that  nothing  is  retouched  in  a 
poem.  Words  may  supplement  each  other;  whole  lines, 
or  even  whole  stanzas,  be  recast;  but  the  general  form 
in  which  the  poem,  in  the  heats  of  creation,  took  shape, 
will  remain  uninfringed,  because  it  is  an  integral  part 
with  the  birth  of  the  thought.  Be  very  sure  that  the 
man  who  has  to  beat  about  for  his  form  has  within  him 
no  inspirational  fire,  but  only  some  farthing  dip  which  he 
believes  to  be  such. 

The  improvisational  or  spontaneous  character  of  all 
the  best  poetry  is  well  known.3  We  read  in  Tennyson's 

1  The  scientific  definition  of  heat  is  :  a  manifestation  of  molecular  mo- 
tion.    The  greater  the  motion,  the  greater  the  heat. 

2  "  The  quick  pulses  of  his  panting  measure  seem  to  give  us  the  very 
beats  of  those  quivering  wings,"  is  the  vivid  comment  made  by  Richard 
Hutton  upon  the  rhythmic  animus  of  this  beautiful  poem. 

3  "  I  appeal  to  the  poets  of  the  present  day,  whether  it  is  not  an  error  to 
assert  that  the  finest  passages  of  poetry  are  produced  by  labour  and  study." 
— SHELLEY  :  "  Defence  of  Poetry." 


96  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  Life"  how,  pacing  beneath  his  trees  at  Farringford, 
many  of  his  most  beautiful  numbers  burst  like  lyric  lavas 
from  his  brain, — perfect,  and  wearing  the  imperishable 
forms  by  which  we  know  them  to-day.  We  are  told  by 
his  son,  in  the  "  Life,"  that  "  many  of  his  shorter  poems 
were  made  in  a  flash." 

Browning  "  wrote  most  frequently  under  that  lyrical 
inspiration  in  which  the  idea  and  the  form  are  least  sep- 
arable from  each  other."  "  Mrs.  Browning  told  Mr. 
Prinsep  that  her  husband  could  never  alter  the  wording 
of  a  poem  without  rewriting  it,  practically  converting  it 
into  another."  l 

Shelley,  nervous  and  impatient,  and  with  a  poetic  fac- 
ulty simply  immense,  threw  off  his  verse  in  its  first  pant- 
ing heats  and  retouched  little;  being  reproached  by  his 
contemporaries  for  this  seeming  carelessness. 

"  He  composed  with  all  his  faculties,  mental,  emo- 
tional, and  physical,  at  the  utmost  strain,  at  a  white  heat 
of  intense  fervour,  striving  to  attain  one  object,  the  truest 
and  most  passionate  investiture  for  the  thoughts  which 
had  inflamed  his  ever-quick  imagination.  .  .  .  He 
was  intolerant  of  detail,  and  thus  failed  to  model  with 
the  roundness  that  we  find  in  Goethe's  works."  2 

Lowell,  we  are  told,  "  in  a  sort  of  poetic  frenzy,  that 
lasted  forty-eight  hours,  almost  without  food  or  sleep," 
composed  the  "  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal."  3 

When  Shakespeare  wishes  to  introduce  to  us  the  fairy 
Form  cor-  folk  of  his  imagination,  he  does  so  in  dancing 
thlf  inform-  ^ts  °^  delicate  rhythms  and  gossamer  imagery. 
ing  thought  Caliban,  coarse  and  earthy,  speaks  in  crude 
measures  which  befit  his  elemental  condition. 

'MRS.  SUTHERLAND  ORR  :  "  Life  of  Browning,"  chap,  xviii. 
. 2  JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS:  "  Life  of  Shelley,"  chap.  viii. 
3  WILLIAM  CRANSTON  LAWTON  :  "  New  England  Poets: — Lowell." 


DIFFERENTIATED  MOTION  97 

Browning  sings  us  a  song  of  a  "  Toccata  of  Galuppi's," 
all  through  the  voluptuous  images  of  which  he  permits 
us  to  catch  echoes  of  this  somewhat  formal,  and  now 
extinct,  musical  form.  In  "  Abt  Vogler,"  on  the  other 
hand,  with  the  swell  of  the  organ  in  his  ears,  it  gets  itself 
into  the  poem,  which  is  uttered  in  verse-equivalent  of 
chords; — long,  full,  sustained  metric  periods,  and  long, 
full,  almost  over-weighted  stanzas.  And  what  could 
be  more  expressive  than  the  "  Grammarian's  Funeral," 
with  the  lengthy,  almost  dithyrambic  line  contrasted  so 
abruptly  with  the  short,  ecstatic  one,  suggesting  the 
rough,  stiff  scramble  up  the  mountain  side,  interspersed 
with  celebrant  song  ? 

Yet  are  none  of  these  effects  of  deliberate  intention, 
else  could  they  not  be  so  happy.  But  rather  are  they 
intuitional,  the  instinctive  action  of  that  vibratory  centre 
upon  which  in  all  men  thought  plays,  and  which,  in  the 
artist,  becomes  of  peculiar  sensitiveness.1 

Professor  Masson  advances  the  theory  that  "  at  a  certain 
pitch  of  fervour  or  feeling,  the  voice  does  instinctively  lift 
itself  into  song.  All  extreme  passion  tends  to  cadence. 
.  .  .  When  the  mind  of  man  is  either  excited  to  a  certain 
pitch,  or  engaged  in  a  certain  kind  of  exercise,  its  trans- 
actions adjust  themselves  in  a  more  express  manner  than 
usual  to  time,  as  meted  out  in  beats  or  intervals.  .  .  . 
The  law,  as  stated  hypothetically,  is,  that  the  mind,  either 
when  excited  to  a  certain  pitch,  or  when  engaged  in  a 

1  This,  of  course,  does  not  obviate  the  intellectual  processes  by  which  a 
poem — especially  the  larger  works  of  art — is  conceived,  rounded  out,  polished, 
and  perfected.  Yet  I  am  sure  that,  even  in  such  stupendous  objective  art 
as  we  have,  for  instance,  in  Dante  or  Milton,  those  lines  and  passages  which 
live  immortal  were  less  the  product  of  reason  than  the  revelation  of  the 
vision. 

The  conscious  working  in  of  such  material  is  what  Wordsworth  means 
when  he  speaks  of  "emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity." 
7 


9 8  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

particular  kind  of  exercise,  takes  on  in  its  transactions 
a  marked  concordance  with  time  as  measured  by  beats."  1 

I  should  not  go  so  far  as  to  claim  that  all  super-heated 
thought  resolves  itself  rhythmically;  because  the  mind 
of  a  mathematician,  or  of  a  scientist,  or  of  a  capitalist, 
might  be,  and  often  is,  "  excited  to  a  certain  pitch  or 
fervour  of  feeling,"  and  the  voice  will  certainly  not  "  lift 
itself  into  song";  but  it  is  quite  true  that,  with  the 
accelerated  mental  vibration  incident  to  the  stress  of 
a  great  idea  or  a  great  passion,  thought  ceases  to  be  an 
intellectual  process  and  becomes  an  emotional,  or  in- 
tuitional one.  And  the  largest  vehicles  for  emotional 
expression  are,  either  poetry  proper,  or  that  more  ethe- 
realised  poetry — music.  So  that,  if  a  man's  habit  of 
thought  be  already  rhythmic,  if  he  be  a  natural  poet  or 
musician,  the  expression  of  this  emotion  will  of  necessity 
be  rhythmic. 

Creation — true  creation — is  a  raptus,  in  which  vision  is 
clarified  and  thought  becomes  ebullient,  a  volcano  of 
living  possibilities.  Within  this  psychic  agitation  lie, 
fluid  and  intermingled — as  in  the  material  molten  forces 
— all  elements;  words,  tropes,  images,  rhythms,  metres, 
colours,  proportions;  to  issue  thence,  when  the  perfect 
moment  arrives,  in  lyric  fusion — white-hot. 

1  DAVID  MASSON  :  "  Essays  : — Theories  of  Poetry." 


CHAPTER   IV 

MELODY 

SHOULD  poetry  be  rhymed  ? 

HOW  the  We  may  answer  this  question  by  another: 

poets  formu-  what,   essentially,   and  as  differentiated    from 
prose,   constitutes   poetry  ?     Here   are   a   few 
definitions  from  the  initiate  themselves. 

"  Poetry  is  a  part  of  learning,  in  measure  of  words  for  the  most 
part  restrained,  but  in  all  other  parts  extremely  licensed,  and 
doth  truly  refer  to  the  imagination." — BACON. 

"That  art, 

Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes." — SHAKESPEARE. 

"  Poetry  is  articulate  music." — DRYDEN. 
"  The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine." — COLERIDGE. 
"  Poetry  is  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity."  — WORDSWORTH. 

"  The   best   and   happiest  moments  of   the  best  and  happiest 
minds." — SHELLEY. 

"  Poetry  is  the  utterance  of  a  passion  for  truth,  beauty,  and 
power,  embodying  and  illustrating  its  conception  by  imagina- 
tion and  fancy,  and  modulating  its  language  on  the  principle  of 
variety  in  uniformity." — LEIGH  HUNT. 

"  Poetry  is  thought  and  art  in  one." — MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 
Professor  Corson,  in  his  lectures  on  "  The  ^Esthetics  of 


ioo  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Verse,"  has  defined  poetry  as  "  definite  thought  wedded 
to  music  which  is  indefinite." 

According  to  Emerson,  "  the  Zoroastrian  definition  of 
poetry,  mystical,  yet  exact,  is  '  Apparent  pictures  of 
unapparent  natures.'  '  Emerson's  own  definition  is, 
"  Poetry  is  the  perpetual  endeavour  to  express  the  spirit 
of  the  thing."  And  again  he  calls  it,  "This  delirious 
music  in  the  brain." 

These  definitions  are,  however,  vague  and  altogether 
inconclusive.  They  deal  with  abstractions  and  not  with 
potentialities.  They  do  not  define  wherein  poetry  as  an 
art  differentiates  from  prose  as  an  art ;  because  the  ele- 
ments with  which  they  deal  are  as  much  concomitants  of 
all  ideal  prose  as  of  poetry.  Professor  Corson  comes 
nearest  to  the  truth  by  claiming  for  poetry  its  indissolu- 
ble union  with  music;  but  he  is  still  generalising,  and 
evades  the  final  issue.  Because,  when  we  examine 
closely,  we  perceive  that  the  radical  difference  between 
prose  and  poetry  is  organic, — is  not  one  of  essence  but 
purely  of  form. 

I  should  say  that  the  distinctive  quality  of  poetry,  and 
that  which  differentiates  it  from  prose,  is  dependent  upon 
Form  the  three  conditions:  viz.: 

quality  which      Ti    Uniform  and   inter  consistent  accent    (en- 
differentiates  .    • 
poetry  from    gendering  primary  rhythm). 

Prose  2.  Balanced  pause-effects  (giving  metrical 

divisions  of  verse  and  stanza). 

3.   Melody. 

Says  Professor  Corson:  "  The  fusing  or  combining  prin- 
ciple of  a  verse  is  Melody.  We  often  meet  with  verses 
which  scan,  as  we  say,  all  right,  and  yet  we  feel  that 
they  have  no  vitality  as  verses.  This  may,  in  most  cases, 
be  attributed  to  their  purely  mechanical  or  cold-blo.oded 
\  structure.  They  are  not  the  product  of  Jeeling,  which 


MELODY  10 1 

attracts  to  itself  (a  great  fact)  vocal  elements,^either 
vowels  or  consonants,  which  chime  well  together  and  in 
accord  with  the  feeling^  but  they  are  rather  the  product 
of  literary  skill.  The  writer  had  no  song,  no  music  in 
his  soul/'1 

Of  the  three  conditions  of  verse  enumerated  above, 
none  can  be  omitted  and  the  resultant  composition  be 
poetry.  The  first  two  have  already  been  treated  in 
chapters  ii  and  iii.  In  this  chapter  we  will  try  to  eluci- 
date the  principles  of  Melody. 

The  most  palpable  and  also  the  largest  factor  in  mel- 
ody is  rhyme.  While  it  is  possible  to  attain  melody  with 
Factors  of  subtler  devices,  and  to  dispense  with  rhyme, 
verse-  this  has  seldom  been,  in  English,  a  successful 

experiment,  and  the  instances  are  few  in  which 
unrhymed  verse  can  be  truly  called  poetry.  I  except 
blank  verse,  which  will  be  treated  by  itself. 

Other  sources  of  melody  are:  (i)  Tone-colour  and  Pho- 
netic Consonance;  (2)  Alliteration  and  Onomatopoeia; 
(3)  Repetitions  and  Refrains. 

If  we  go  once  more  to  the  sister  art  of  poetry,  music, 
we  may  find  a  logical  acoustic  reason  for  the  demand  of 
the  human  ear  for  rhyme. 

It  is  a  general  canon  of  composition  that  a  simple  mel- 
ody shall  end  upon  its  tonic,  or  key-note.2  Otherwise 
Principle  of  there  is  not  produced  upon  the  ear  a  sensation 
the  tonic  of  repOse  or  completion.  The  reason  of  this 
is  that,  in  the  tonic  chord,  or  triad, — that  is,  the  key-note 
of  a  melody,  with  the  super-addition  of  the  third  above 
it  and  the  fifth  above  it, — we  have  the  only  perfect 
cadence  producible  in  music.  When  preceded  by  the 

1  HIRAM  CORSON  :  "  A  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  chap.  ii. 

2  It  must  be  borne   in  mind  that  in  all  these  technical  comparisons  of 
verse  with  music,  I  confine  myself  to  the  very  simplest  melodic  forms. 


102  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

dominant,  it  is  called  the  perfect  authentic  cadence.  This 
is  because  there  is  in  other  chords  a  sense  of  incomplete- 
ness,— a  quality  which  requires  to  go  on,  to  modulate  or 
progress  into  some  further  chord.  In  the  tonic  chord 
alone  the  ear  makes  no  demand  for  further  progression 
because,  for  that  theme,  it  is  the  end — is  complete  in 
itself.  Thus  it  is  that,  through  however  many  modula- 
tions the  ear  may  be  dragged,  (and  in  much  of  the  music 
of  our  own  day  a  tonal  labyrinth  it  is!)  we  must  drop  at 
last  upon  the  tonic  for  rest.  Browning  has  beautifully 
symbolised  this  in  "  Abt  Vogler  "  where,  after  restless 
progressions  of  vision  and  image  and  speculation,  the 
spirit  drops  back  for  anchorage  to  the  simple  starting- 
point — the  soul-centre — the  spiritual  key-note. 

(f  Well,  it  is  earth  with  me ;  silence  resumes  her  reign  : 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again,1 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  alien  ground, 

Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is 

found, 
The  C  Major  of  this  life  :  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep." 

I  have  gone  at  some  length  into  these  elements  of 
melodic  balance,  for  it  seems  to  me  that  in  them  we  de- 
tect the  logical  reason  why  rhymed  verse — some  form  of 
rhymed  verse — has  so  far  presented,  and  probably  will 

1  The  common  chord  is  the  chord  of  C  Major,  thus  : 


This  chord,  and  the  scale  it  represents,  is  selected  as  typical  and  to  furnish 
the  model  for  other  scales,  because  it  is  written  upon  the  staff  as  it  stands, 
without  the  need  of  accidentals  (sharps  or  flats). 


MELOD  Y 


103 


always  continue  to  present,  to  the  human  ear  the  most 
satisfying  results.  I  will  insert  here  a  little  melody  of 
Mozart's — selecting  purposely  a  theme  almost  universally 
known—by  way  of  elucidating  further  this  fundamental 
idea. 

A  B  ^ C 


between 


Reading  the  treble  staff  (where  the  thematic  movement 
is  given)  it  will  be  observed  that  this  melody  is  divided 
Analogy  *nto  two  phrases,  the  first  —  or  out-swinging 
half  (A  to  B)  —  poising  itself  as  it  were  in  air, 
(to  ^e  technical,  upon  a  note  of  the  dominant 
cadence  cor-  chord)  ;  the  second  (B  to  C),  by  a  return-swing 

respondence         ,     ,  \  ,     .       . 

of  the  mental  pendulum,  bringing  us  once  more 
to  rest  upon  the  tonic,  or  key-note.  It  is  exactly  at  this 
point  that  the  analogy  between  the  verse-scheme  and  the 
music-scheme  comes  in.  The  chord  of  the  dominant  is 
called  the  half-cadence  because  it  leads  directly  into  the 
chord  of  the  tonic,  or  full  cadence;  therefore  at  B  there 
\$  prepared  a  tone  which  the  tonic,  at  C,  is  required  to 
complete.  In  exactly  the  same  way,  in  any  rhymed 
stanza,  the  first  word  of  the  rhyme  prepares  or  introduces 
a  tone  which  the  last  rhyme  is  required  to  complete. 
Take  for  example  an  ordinary  quatrain,  which  is  what 
this  little  theme  practically  represents.  Thus: 

"  Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'  d  Abbey  walls, 
That  stand  within  the  chace." 

1  First  eight  bars  of  Trio  of  Minuet,  from  Mozart's  Symphony  in  E[>,  Op. 
58.    (Arr.  for  pianoforte,  four  hands.) 


104  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Here  the  word  face  stands  for  the  half-cadence  and 
requires  the  answering  word,  chace,  to  make  tonal  com- 
pleteness. Half-way  between  A  and  B,  in  the  theme 
given  on  page  103,  there  is  a  place  where  the  music  swings 
away  from  cadence:  these  two  points  have  their  corre- 
spondence in  the  stanza  in  the  words  falls  and  walls,  of 
the  first  and  third  lines.  This  is  a  secondary  sequence, 
which,  as  it  is  not  required  for  the  tonal  completeness  of 
the  stanza,  we  may  call  the  off-rhymes  ;  while  the  rhymes 
face  and  chace  of  the  second  and  fourth  lines,  as  they  are 
required  for  tonal  completeness,  we  call  t\\.e  finish-rhymes. 

Stanzas  with  more  complex  and  irregular  rhyme- 
schemes  may  be  compared  with  more  irregular  melodic 
themes,  where,  through  modulation,  the  final  tonic  is 
delayed  ;  but  of  course  such  comparisons  are  elementary 
and  cannot  be  pushed  far. 

Rhyme  we  must  then  regard  as  the  cadence-correspond- 
ence of  verse.  Man,  Emerson  tells  us, 

"  Through  worlds,  and  races,  and  terms,  and  times, 
Saw  musical  order  and  pairing  rhymes." 


The  melodic  balance  of  a  stanza  seems  to  lie  in  the  last 
The  melodic    line.     If  rhyme  exist  in  previous  lines  and  not     / 

stanza*  uL*     in  t^ie  last»  ^e  ear  wi^  not  receive  an  impres-r 
in  last  line      sion   of  tonal   finish.      Thus   if  the   foregoing 
stanza  stood  as  follows: 


"  Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'  d  Abbey  walls, 
That  stand  within  the  wood," 

we  could  not  call  the  stanza  a  rhymed  stanza,  because, 
although  the  first  and  third  lines  rhyme,  there  is  no  ter- 
minal rhyme,  and  so  to  the  ear  no  sense  of  melodic  com- 


MELODY  105 

pleteness.  Therefore,  although  we  may  easily  omit  off- 
rhymes,  we  cannot  omit  finish-rhymes,  and  maintain 
melodic  completeness. 

For  the  same  reason  it  is  obvious  that,  when  rhymes 
are  placed  irregularly  through  a  stanza,  they  must  not 

Rhymes  ^e  to°  ^ar  aPart  ^or  tne  ear  to  correlate  them 
must  not  be  and  carry  them  as  a  tonal  unit.  "  Pheidip- 
pides  "  has,  I  think,  somewhat  this  defect, 
the  rhyme-scheme  being  needlessly  complex.  There  are 
eight  lines  to  the  stanza,  the  first  four  each  having  a  dif- 
ferent tonal  ending.  The  last  four  reverse  the  scheme, 
the  fifth  rhyming  with  the  fourth,  the  sixth  with  the 
third,  while  the  last  two  are  again  twisted  about,  the 
seventh  rhyming  with  the  first,  and  the  eighth  with  the 
second.  Melodic  coherence  is  thus,  in  a  measure,  de- 
stroyed —  the  very  long  line  being  a  further  erasive  factor, 
—  and,  except  in  the  two  central  lines,  the  ear  catches  no 
distinct  tonal  impression. 

It  is  always  best  to  use,  among  rhymes,  a  large  pro- 
portion of  monosyllables.  The  strength  of  our  language 
lies  in  its  monosyllables.  Thus,  such  rhymed  tones  as 
suddenly,  universally,  lack  strength,  and  the  lines  wherein 
they  occur  would  gain  in  virility  should  one  of  the  rhymes 
be  instead  a  monosyllable,  as  sky. 

In  English,  in  order  to  have  rhyme,  it  is  necessary  to 
have  absolute  coincidence  of  the  terminal  consonant 
Rhyme  sounds.  We  also  require  coincidence  of  ter- 
absoiuteco-  minal  vowel  sounds  ;  but  some  stretching  of 
incidence  these  is  permissible,  while  none  at  all  is  per- 
consonant  missible  in  the  consonant  sounds.  Thus  art 


sounds  but      and  ivcrt  may  be  considered  as  rhymes,   but 

not  of 

vowels  time  and  fine  may  not.     Words  need  not  be 

spelled  alike  —  indeed  in  our  unphonetic  language  we  may 
not  compel  such  a  condition,  —  but  they  must  strike  the 


io6  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

same  tone;  as  hear,  sphere ;  shoe,  through;  news,  confuse. 
Certain  words  which  are  spelled  differently  but  pro- 
nounced exactly  alike,  both  as  to  consonant  and  vowel 
sounds, — such  as  air,  heir ;  there,  their ;  sent,  scent,  cent 
— cannot  be  considered  rhymes  because  they  are  not  con- 
trasted tones,  but,  both  in  vowel  and  consonant  sounds, 
phonetically  identical. 

It  has  become  the  custom  in  these  latter  days — with 
that  tendency  of  eras  barren  in  production — to  riot  in 
hyper-criticism,  which  hyper-criticism  rules  out  as  im- 
perfect and  untrue  all  rhymes  not  absolutely  coincident 
in  vowel  cadence.  Such  rhymes  as  the  following:  De- 
fender, Leander  :  (Keats).  Valley,  melancholy  :  (Keats). 
Near  it,  spirit,  inherit  :  (Shelley).  Wert,  art :  (Shelley). 
Moon,  alone:  (Tennyson).  With  her,  together :  (Tenny- 
son). Valleys,  lilies:  (Tennyson).  Chatters,  waters: 
(Wordsworth).  Weary,  sanctuary :  (Wordsworth).  Re- 
turning, morning :  (Gray).  Beech,  stretch:  (Gray). 

The  question  arises,  why — if  these  rhymes  are  in- 
admissible, because  tonally  defective — have  the  greatest 
imperfect  and  best  artists  of  verse,  of  all  time,  used 
cadence  them  ?  The  fact  is  that  they  are  not  tonally 
defective.  We  have  already  examined  the  tonic  chord, 
or  perfect  authentic  cadence,  of  music,  and  see  that  it 
consists  of  the  tonic  or  key-note,  with  the  addition  of  its 
third  and  fifth,  which  complete  it  tonally.  Now  it  is 
quite  as  correct  for  a  melody  to  end  upon  either  the  third 
or  the  fifth  as  upon  the  tonic,  because  either  of  these 
notes  is  a  component  of  the  perfect  chord,  the  correlating 
ear  instinctively  supplying  the  fundamental  note.  This 
sort  of  ending  is  called  the  Imperfect  Authentic  Cadence. 

Now,  in  verse,  when  vowel  sounds  are  so  closely  re- 
lated as  to  give  practically  a  coincident  vibration,  we 
may  consider  them  in  the  light  of  the  musical  imperfect 


MELODY  107 

cadence  and  so  admit  them  to  use.  Such  rhymes  as  the 
list  given  above  belong  to  the  verse  imperfect  cadence, 
and,  used  with  discretion,  are  just  as  tonally  satisfying 
to  the  ear  as  the  perfect  cadence ;  because,  although  they 
have  not  the  sense  of  absolute  finality  of  the  tonic,  or 
true  rhyme,  they  produce  upon  the  ear  the  same  tonal 
impression.  Of  course  it  requires  much  nicety  of  ear  to 
distinguish  between  tones  which  are  correlated  and  those 
which  are  not.  A  conspicuous  absence  of  this  discrim- 
inative faculty  is  observable  in  the  odd,  flashing,  often 
wonderfully  prismatic,  bits  of  verse — bits,  rather  than 
coherent  verses — of  the  late  Emily  Dickinson ;  where  are 
frequent  such  startling  tonal  combinations  as  denied, 
smiled;  book,  think;  all,  soul;  own,  young ;  etc. 

No,  we  cannot  rule  out  the  imperfect  cadence.  In 
a  language  which  admits  six  sounds  of  A ;  six  sounds  of 
E;  three  sounds  of  I;  five  sounds  of  O;  and  five  sounds 
of  U — not  to  mention  combined  vowel  sounds, — should 
we  discard  all  the  beautiful  melodic  effects  possible  with 
this  factor,  we  should  have  verse-poverty  indeed,  instead 
of,  as  we  really  have,  great  opulence. 

And  the  fact  remains  that  in  the  end  it  is  the  poets, 
and  not  the  critics,  who  determine  what  words  or  rhymes 
shall  be  used,  simply  by  using  them.  They  present  us 
with  a  coin  which  passes  current  by  reason  of  its  very 
adaptability.  They  fill  our  literature  with  tones  attuned 
to  finer  cadences  than  is  ever  pedagogically  attainable. 
'  We,  the  musicians,  know,"  says  Abt  Vogler. 

We  have  already  seen  how  the  feminine  ending  be- 
comes an  added  factor  in  motion.  In  the  same  way 
Feminine  feminine  rhymes  become  an  added  factor  in 
facto1™?  melody  by  prolonging  the  cadence.  Double 
melody  Or  feminine  rhymes  must,  of  course,  always  be 
used  with  restraint  and  a  good  ear.  It  is  not  quite  such 


io8  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

good  art  to  set  two  monosyllables  against  a  dissyllable 
as  to  have  both  composed  of  either  dissyllables  or  mono- 
syllables. Thus  Aurora  and  for  her  is  not  so  pure  as  for 
her  and  bore  her.  Such  rhymes  as  fabric  and  dab  brick 
—used  by  Browning — are  entirely  inadmissible,  because 
over-strained,  grotesque,  and  cacophonous.  Many  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  double  rhymes  are  also  questionable. 
Rhymes  should  be  apposite  in  sound  as  well  as  in  senti- 
ment. 

Triple  rhymes  are  apt  to  have  a  grotesque  effect,  but 
a  notable  exception  is  Hood's  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  where 
Triple  they  are  so  handled  as  to  seem  to  add  a  note 

IpftTbe  of  Pathos  to  the  theme.  Remarkable  corn- 
grotesque  binations  of  them  may  be  found  in  the  "  Bab 
Ballads  " ;  and  in  Browning's  "  Pacchiarotto  "  and  "  Flight 
of  the  Duchess  "  there  are  some  wonderful  triple  rhymes, 
but  they  impress  one  almost  more  as  tonal  gymnastics 
than  as  legitimate  music.  As  a  rule  it  is  best  to  avoid 
rhymes  of  more  than  two  syllables,  as  it  adds  nothing  to 
the  melody  of,  and  is  apt  to  detract  from,  the  dignity  of 
a  poem. 

I  have  already  pointed  out  that  rhymes  should  not  be 
too  far  apart  for  the  ear  to  coordinate  them  tonally. 
Rhyme  ^ut  ^  'ls  clul'te  as  Dad  to  overload  rhyme  need- 

should  not  be  lessly  and  produce  tonal  indigestion.  Very 
wonderful  effects  are  producible  by  rhyme- 
repetitions  when  they  are  organic  and  for  a  purpose — as 
I  shall  presently  show — but  they  need  the  finest  percep- 
tion to  adjust.  It  is  invaluable  to  study  and  analyse  the 
rhyme-schemes  of  the  best  verse,  and  to  determine  for 
one's  self  wherein  the  melodic  secret  lies.  In  the  sonnet 
— a  metric  form  so  perfect  that  its  use  has  suffered  no 
eclipse  in  five  centuries — the  intrinsic  virtue  lies  in  the 
rhymed  sequences.  Kindred  to  it  in  basic  purpose  is 


MELODY  109 

the  beautiful  Spenserian  stanza.  The  rhyme-groupings 
in  Keats's  odes  are  balanced  with  wonderful  delicacy, 
giving  them  that  melodious  flow  which  makes  of  the 
poems  perennial  music. 

Verse  rhyme-schemes  will  be  treated  in  detail  in  the 
next  chapter. 

There  is  a  certain  coordination  of  thought  by  which 
the  concept  of  one  sound  seems  to  draw  to  it,  as  the 
magnet  draws  the  steel,  cognate  or  related  sounds,  so 
that  all  impinge  upon  the  ear  as  a  harmonious  whole. 
This  tonal  inter-relation  or  correspondence  is  only  an- 
other manifestation  of  that  law  of  sympathetic  vibration 
previously  noted,  which,  in  this  conjunction,  operates 
to  the  fluency  of  melody  within  the  verse.  Thus  we 
see  that  the  poet  not  so  much  seeks  his  effects  as 
they  seek  him ;  and,  to  the  trained  imagination,  tone 
combinations  present  themselves  naturally,  as  by  right 
divine. 

Within  this  law  of  inter-related  tones  is  comprehended 
Rhyme  and  its  two  great  coefficients,  Tone-colour  and 
Tone-colour  Alliteration.  Refrains  would  seem  to  be  a 
of  verse  \&\\s  further  differentiated. 

The  term  Tone-colour  (the  word  colour  being  borrowed 
from  a  visual  art,  painting,  and  tone  from  poetry's  sister 
art,  music)  means  those  gradations  of  melodic  light  and 
shade  producible  to  the  ear  by  nice  adjustments  of  vowel 
consonances  and  contrasts  within  the  verse  and  stanza.1 

"  When  the  voice  utters  the  sound  denoted  by  the  English  character  A, 
it  makes,  not  a  single  tone,  but  a  tone  composed  of  a  number  of  other  tones. 
When  it  utters  the  sound  denoted  by  the  English  character  O,  it  again  utters 
a  tone  which  is  not  single,  but  composed  of  a  number  of  other  tones  ;  and 
the  difference  between  the  two  sounds,  by  which  the  ear  distinguishes  A  from 
O,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  certain  of  the  ingredient  sounds  are  prominent  in 
A,  while  certain  others  are  prominent  in  O.  As  in  making  the  colour  purple 


no  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Professor  Max  Miiller  tells  us,  in  the  "  Science  of  Lan- 
guage," concretely  just  what  vowels  are.  "What  we 
what  call  vowels  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 

vowels  are  qualities,  or  colours,  or  timbres  of  our  voice, 
and  these  are  determined  by  the  form  of  the  vibrations, 
which  form  again  is  determined  by  the  form  of  the  buccal 
tubes.  ...  Vowels  are  produced  by  the  form  of  the 
vibrations.  They  vary  like  the  timbre  of  different  instru- 
ments, and  we  in  reality  change  the  instruments  on  which 
we  speak  when  we  change  the  buccal  tubes  in  order  to 
pronounce  a,  e,  i,  o,  u."  (Lecture  iii.) 

Thus  when  we  speak  of  Keats  as  "  a  great  colourist," 
and  Wordsworth  as  not"  a  great  colourist,"  we  mean  that 
the  verse  of  the  former  is  filled  with  rich  ancLvarvinp- 
toae^iCojTi^matipns,  while  in  that  of  the  latter  this  rich- 
ness and  variety  are  virtually  absent. 

Coleridge,  who  at  his  best  had  a  fine  feeling  for  colour, 
used  to  call  the  attention  of  his  children  to  the  melody 
of  such  a  verse  as  this,  from  "  Love  ": 

out  of  a  composition  of  red  and  violet,  we  should  have  different  shades  of 
purple  according  as  we  should  make  the  red  or  violet  more  prominent  in  the 
mixture  ;  so  in  making  up  a  sound,  the  buccal  cavity  manages,  by  coordina- 
tions of  muscles  which  are  learned  in  childhood,  to  render  now  one,  now 
another  ingredient-sound  more  prominent,  and  thus  to  bring  out  different 
shades  of  tone.  It  is  a  certain  shade  of  tone  which  we  call  A,  another 
which  we  call  O,  another  which  we  call  E,  another  which  we  call  U;  and 
so  on  :  and  the  ear  discriminates  one  of  these  shades  of  tone  from  another, 
as  the  eye  discriminates  one  shade  of  colour  from  another.  It  is  this  analogy 
between  processes  belonging  to  sound  and  processes  belonging  to  light  which 
has  originated  the  very  expressive  term,  '  Tone-colour'  in  acoustics." — SID- 
NEY LANIER  :  "  The  Science  of  English  Verse,"  chap.  xi. 

"  The  tongue,  the  cavity  of  the  fauces,  the  lips,  teeth,  and  palate,  with 
its  velum  pendulum  and  uvula  performing  the  office  of  a  valve  between  the 
throat  and  nostrils,  as  well  as  the  cavity  of  the  nostrils  themselves,  are  all 
concerned  in  modifying  the  impulse  given  to  the  breath  as  it  issues  from  the 
larynx,  and  in  producing  the  various  vowels  and  consonants." — MAX  MtJL- 
LER  :  "  Science  of  Language,"  Second  Series;  lecture  iii. 


MELODY  HI 

'  I  played  a  s^ft  and  doleful  air, 

I  sang  an  01d  and  moving  story, 
An  01d  rude  s^ng,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin,  wild  and  binary." 

Here  O  and  U  are  the  vowels  played  upon ;  but  often 
the  nuances  will  slide  through  the  whole  gamut  of  vowel 
Effects  of  sounds,  subtly  interweaving  them  one  with 
toning  another.  The  ear  takes  pleasure  in  having  the 

tone-impression  renewed,  recombined,  and  contrasted, 
drinking  in  as  a  melodic  whole  both  the  variation  and  the 
repetition.  Certain  tones  repeated  bear  a  subtle  relation 
to  the  interweaved  figures  in  musical  compositions. 

To  attempt  to  lay  down  lines  for  the  melodic  effects 
achieved  through  toning  would  be  futile,  as  these  depend 
entirely  upon  the  feeling  and  auditory  sensitiveness  of 
the  artist.  The  most  valuable  course  of  training  in  this 
particular  is  to  study  the  great  colourists  among  the  poets, 
and  so  to  saturate  one's  self  with  the  underlying  spirit 
of  verse-tones  that,  when  composing,  the  right  ones  will 
instinctively  present  themselves.  I  give  a  few  illustra- 
tive examples  of  rich  vowel  effects;  but  the  student  will 
find  plenty  upon  every  page  of  the  great  poets. 

"  At  last  they  heard  a  home  that  shrilled  cleare 
Throughout  the  wood  that  ecchoed  againe, 
And  made  the  forrest  ring,  as  it  would  rive  in  twaine." 
— SPENSER  :  "  Faerie  Queene,"  ii.,  3,  20. 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold : 


H2  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold' st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls;  " 

— SHAKESPEARE  :  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  v.  i. 

"  She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 
Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue ; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard, 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barr'd ; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed, 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  interwreathed 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries — " 

— KEATS  :  "  Lamia." 

"  Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — by  these 
Three  queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars," 

—TENNYSON  :  "  The  Passing  of  Arthur." 

"  The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel  ! 
It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 
But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. — 
On  tne  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 
Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted  old  oak  tree." 

— COLERIDGE  :  "  Christabel." 

Of  this  last  quotation  Professor  Corson  remarks:  "  The 
form  of  this  stanza  is  quite  perfect.  Note  the  suggestive- 
ness  of  the  abrupt  vowels  in  the  first  verse,  the  abate- 
ment required  for  the  proper  elocution  in  the  second 
verse,  the  prolongable  vowels  and  sub-vowels  of  the 


MELODY  113 

third,  and  then  the  short  vowels  again  in  the  fourth. 
Then  note  how  the  vowels  in  the  last  verse  swell  respon- 
sive to  the  poet's  conception,  and  how  encased  they  are 
in  a  strong  framework  of  consonants."1 

Verse-toning  depends  quite  as  much  upon  the  con- 
cordance and  melodic  adjustment  of  consonant  sounds  as 
upon  the  skilful  variation  and  adaptation  of  the  vowel 
sounds. 

Turning  again  to  the  "  Science  of  Language,"  we 
find  consonants  scientifically  defined.  '  There  is  no 
What  reason  why  languages  should  not  have  been 

consonants  entirely  formed  of  vowels.  There  are  words 
consisting  of  vowels  only,  such  as  Latin  eot 
I  go ;  ea,  she ;  eoa,  eastern ;  the  Greek  eioeis  (but  for  the 
final  j);  the  Hawaiian  hooiaioai,  to  testify,  (but  for  its 
initial  breathing).  Yet  these  very  words  show  how  un- 
pleasant the  effect  of  such  a  language  would  have  been. 
Something  else  was  wanted  to  supply  the  bones  of  lan- 
guage, namely,  the  consonants.  Consonants  are  called 
in  Sanscrit  vyanjana,  which  means  '  rendering  distinct  or 
manifest,'  while  the  vowels  are  called  svara,  sounds." 
(Lecture  iii.) 

In  casting  a  verse  of  poetry,  harsh  or  barbarous  con- 
trasts of  consonants,  and  juxtapositions  of  those  difficult 
to  be  pronounced  together,  must,  as  a  rule,  be  avoided. 
We  all  remember  the  unpronounceable  catches  with 
which,  as  children,  we  used  to  test  each  other's  powers  of 
articulation.  For  instance : 

"  'Midst  thickest  mists  and  stiff est  frosts, 
With  strongest  fists  and  stoutest  boasts, 
He  thrusts  his  fists  against  the  posts, 
And  still  insists  he  sees  the  ghosts." 

1  "  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  chap.  ii. 


H4  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

This  quatrain  is  not  poetry,  not  so  much  because  of 
absence  of  meaning,  as  because  it  is,  from  beginning  to 
phonetic  end,  the  most  racking  cacophony;  and  cacoph- 
consonance  Ony  can  never  be  poetry.  We  must  steer  clear 
of  the  "  consonantal  rocks,"  as  some  one  has  felicitously 
put  it.  Thus  the  whole  verse  becomes  tonally  organic. 
Word  fits  to  word  with  such  perfection  of  rhetorical  join- 
ery that  the  poem  flows  with  the  unified  impulse  of 
a  running  stream.  To  this  consonantal  fitness  some  give 
the  name  of  phonetic  consonance.  I  much  prefer  it  to 
the  jaw-breaking  term  phonetic  syzygy  1  employed  by  Syl- 
vester, and  followed  by  Lanier  and  others.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  give  special  examples  of  phonetic  con- 
sonance, as  these  form  a  large  part  of  all  toning,  con- 
trasting and  separating  the  vowel  nuances.  Neither  this 
nor  alliteration — which  is  a  form  of  phonetic  consonance 
— are  really  separable  from  the  general  studies  in  colour, 
as  all  are  integral  parts  of  one  melodic  purpose. 

Dissonances  are  also,  at  times  and  for  special  ends, 
permissible.  Shakespeare,  where  it  serves  the  theme, 
has  many  instances  of  sharp,  even  harsh,  consonantal 
contrasts.  Browning — who  may  be  called  the  Wagner 
pf  verse — abounds  with  them ;  and  he  has  so  enlarged 
the  scope  of  verse  that  he  may  be  pardoned  if,  like  his 
great  contemporary,  he  sometimes  loses  the  tonal  cen- 
tre of  gravity  and  slips  over  into  pure,  unmitigated 
cacophony.2 

1  From  the  Greek  syzygos  :  yoked  together. 

8  Browning's  roughnesses  will  be  found  to  be  not  metric,  but  always  in 
the  diction.  Moreover,  in  a  great  number  of  instances — whether  with  the 
best  artistic  taste  or  not — this  is  done  with  intention  and  a  view  to  produc- 
ing a  special  effect.  We  see  this  in  "  Holy  Cross  Day,"  which  opens  with 
a  movement  almost  grotesque,  but  flows  out,  as  the  theme  deepens,  into 
large,  forcible,  solemn  measures.  Another  example  is  "  The  Grammarian's 
Funeral,"  which  begins  with  an  onomatopoeic  scramble,  but  deepens  into 


MELODY  115 

In  the  eyes  of  many  metrists,  colour-toning  is  of  more 
importance  even  than  rhyme,  since  rhyme  furnishes  only 
the  terminal  tones,  whereas  tone-colour  furnishes  the  in- 
ternal music  which  is  inherent  in  all  true  poetry  whether 
verse  be  rhymed  or  not.  In  blank  verse  all  the  melody 
lies,  of  course,  in  the  internal  toning. 

Next  to  tone-colour,  and  rivalling  it  in  the  distribution 

of  tone-values,  stands  alliteration,  with  its  subdivision  of 

onomatopoeia.      Alliteration   is  the  repetition 

Alliteration 

of  a  letter — generally  a  consonant — at  the  be- 
ginning of,  or  within,  several  contiguous  words  of  a  verse, 
or  words  almost  contiguous.  Thus : 

"  With  /isp  of  /eaves,  and  ripple  of  rain." — SWINBURNE. 

"Stinging,  ringing  spindrift,  nor  the/ulmar/'lyingj/ree." 

— KIPLING. 

"  Murmuring  irom  Glarawara's  inmost  caves." — WORDSWORTH. 

"  Am/  drowsy  tink/ings  /u//the  distant  fo/ds." — GRAY. 
"  The  /eague-/ong  ro//er  thundering  on  the  reef." — TENNYSON. 

'"  The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial 'e/ms, 

And  murmuring  of  innumerable  ^ees." — TENNYSON. 

"  The  £are,  £/ack  <r/iff  r/anged  round  him." — TENNYSON. 

These  repetitions  give  a  tone-consonance  very  closely 
related  to  rhyme,  and  bind  together  special  words  within 
the  verse  exactly  in  the  same  manner  in  which  rhyme 

splendid  meteoric  climax.  Browning  can  be  melodic  enough,  too,  when  he 
chooses.  "  The  Flower's  Name,"  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,"  "  Over  the  Sea  our 
Galleys  Went,"  "  Heap  Cassia  Buds,"  "  One  Way  of  Love,"  "  Meeting  at 
Night,"  "  A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's,"  "  Memorabilia,"  "  There's  a  Woman 
Like  a  Dew-drop,"  "  One  Word  More,"  and  a  host  of  others,  are  full  of  a 
41  rich  and  haunting  music  "  not  easily  to  be  matched  in  English  verse. 


n6  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

binds  together,  and  tonally  unifies,  special  verses  within 
the  stanza. 

Thus,  in  the  first  quotation,  /  correlates  lisp  and  leaves, 
while  r  correlates  ripple  and  rain.  In  the  second  quota- 
tion the  alliteration  extends  to  whole  groups  of  letters: 
inging,  inging,  in,  i;  and  then  the /in  spindrift  intro- 
duces the  second  alliteration  on  /.  In  the  third,  the 
alliteration  is  upon  m  and  r.  In  the  fourth,  it  plays 
between  the  letters  d  and  //  this  and  the  following  ones 
taking  on  that  more  subtle  correspondence  of  initial  with 
internal  alliteration.  In  the  fifth,  the  play  is  upon 
/  and  r.  The  sixth  is  a  very  subtle  web  of  m,  n,  and  /. 
This  internal  alliteration  does  not  appeal  so  quickly  to 
the  eye  as  initial  alliteration,  and  many  persons  would 
read  this  passage  without  in  the  least  detecting  the  rela- 
tion of  sounds,  merely  having  an  aesthetic  pleasure  in 
the  harmonious  flow  of  the  verse.  In  the  seventh,  we 
have  again  initial  alliteration,  sharp  and  resonant,  upon 
b  and  cl;  the  /  and  ck  in  black  introducing  the  second 
alliterative  tone. 

The  key  to  harmonious  alliteration  lies,  I  think,  in  the 
etymological  grouping  of  consonants,  these  being  along 
Theke  to  purely  phonetic  lines.  English  teachers  do 
harmonious  not  make  much  of  these  groupings,  and  we 

alliteration       haye    ^    ^^    tQ    ^    Qreek    grammar   for   sug. 

gestions  in  making  a  table  of  them. 

TABLE  OF  CONSONANT  GROUPS 

Liquids  : — /,  m,  n,  r.  (/and  r  are  also  called  trills.) 

Aspirate : — h. 

Sibillant : — (or  spirant)  s. 

SMOOTH.  MIDDLE.  ROUGH. 

Labials : —  p.  b.  ph  or/ 

Palatals:—  k.  ^(hard).          ^(guttural). 

Linguals : —          /.  d.  th. 


MELODY  117 

Of  the  consonants  not  included  in  the  above  table,  c  is 
either  s  or  k,  according  as  it  is  hard  or  soft.  J  and  soft 
g,  which  do  not  exist  phonetically  in  Greek,  Professor 
Miiller  classes  as  soft  aspirates.  Q  is  another  sound  of  k. 
V  is  another  sound  of  f.  W  and  y  we  consider  phoneti- 
cally vowels. 

X  and  z  are  called  by  the  Greeks  double  consonants  be- 
cause they  are  compound  in  sound,  x  being  composed  of 
k  sound  and  s  sound ;  z  being  composed  of  d  and  soft  s. 

But  none  of  the  letters  indicated  in  this  last  paragraph 
are  often  used  alliteratively. 

Now  it  is  evident  that,  if  the  alliterative  letters  come 
from  the  same  group,  the  sound  of  the  verse  will  be 
peculiarly  suave ;  and,  conversely,  if  they  come  from  con- 
trasted groups,  the  sound  will  be  more  dissonant.  Thus, 
'  The  league-long  roller,"  etc.,  has  its  alliterations  from 
the  same  consonant  group ;  while  "  The  bare,  black  cliff," 
etc.,  has  them  from  sharply  contrasted  groups,  and  thus 
gives  phonetically  the  desired  impression  of  harshness. 

The  feeling  for  alliteration  lies  deep  at  the  core  of  Eng- 
lish speech.  It  is  our  one  inheritance  from  the  literature 
Deep  feeling  of  the  Anglo-Saxons ;  and  a  priceless  one  it  is! 
foraiiit-  if-  becomes  difficult  to  imagine  how  harsh  Eng- 

eration  in  .... 

English  hsh  diction  would  be,  wanting  this  softening 
verse  ancj  binding  element.  In  Anglo-Saxon  verse 

alliteration  took  the  place  of  rhyme.  The  introduction 
in  the  fourteenth  century  of  French  and  Italian  forms 
swept  aside  the  clumsier  Teutonic  methods,  and  made  of 
the  new  speech  something  more  melodious  and  plastic. 
Chaucer,  giving  it  classic  form,  caught,  and  interwove 
with  echoes  of  the  warm  southern  tones,  this  fine,  native 
melodic  element.  Spenser  may  be  said  to  clasp  hands 
with  Chaucer  across  two  centuries — for  between  them 
lie  no  great  English  poets — and  such  melodic  hints  as 


n8  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

the  older  artist  left,  the  younger  caught  up  and  devel- 
oped into  a  lofty  music  which  has  never  been  surpassed. 
Subsequent  poets  owe  much  of  their  tonal  inspiration  to 
Spenser;  but  it  was  particularly  in  his  rescue  and  elabo- 
ration of  alliteration — his  genius  putting  upon  the  coin 
a  stamp  which  made  it  current  for  all  time — that  he  laid 
a  debt  upon  his  countrymen.  Here  are  some  examples 
from  the  older  poets. 

"  The  heraudes  lefte  hir  priking  up  and  doun; 
Now  ringen  trompes  loude  and  clarioun ; 
Ther  is  namore  to  seyn  but  west  and  est 
In  goon  the  speres  ful  sadly  in  arest ; 
In  goth  the  sharpe  spore  into  the  syde. 
Ther  seen  men  who  can  juste  and  who  can  ryde ; 
Ther  shiveren  shaftes  upon  sheeldes  thikke ; 
He  feleth  thurgh  the  herte-spoon  the  prikke. 
Up  springen  speres  twenty  foot  on  highte ; 
Out  goon  the  swerdes  as  the  silver  brighte." 

— CHAUCER:  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  2601. 

"  By  this  the  northerne  wagoner  had  set 

His  sevenfold  teme  behind  the  stedfast  starre 
That  was  in  ocean  waves  yet  never  wet, 

But  firme  is  fixt,  and  sendeth  light  from  farre 
To  al  that  in  the  wide  deepe  wandring  arre ;  " 

SPENSER:   "Faerie  Queene,"  ii.  i. 

"  Love  in  a  humour  play'd  the  prodigal, 
And  bade  my  senses  to  a  solemn  feast ; 
Yet  more  to  grace  the  company  withal, 
Invites  my  heart  to  be  the  chief  est  guest :" 

— MICHAEL  DRAYTON  :  Sonnet. 

"  Upon  her  head  she  wears  a  crown  of  stars, 
Through  which  her  orient  hair  waves  to  her  waist, 
By  which  believing  mortals  hold  her  fast, 


MELODY  119 

And  in  those  golden  cords  are  carried  even, 

Till  with  her  breath  she  blows  them  up  to  heaven. 

She  wears  a  robe  enchased  with  eagles'  eyes, 

To  signify  her  sight  in  mysteries  : 

Upon  each  shoulder  sits  a  milk-white  dove,  m 

And  at  her  feet  do  witty  serpents  move." 

— BEN  JONSON  :  "  Truth,"  from  "  Hymenaei." 

"  Care-charmer  Sleepe,  Sonne  of  the  sable  night,    ! 
Brother  to  death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  returne, 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourne 
The  ship-wracke  of  my  ill-adventured  youth  : 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  waile  their  scorn 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth." 

— SAMUEL  DANIEL  :  Sonnet. 

"  Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hill,  or  field, 
Or  woods  and  steepy  mountains  yield; 

"  Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 

And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals." 

-CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE:   "The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his 
Love." 

"  Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear, 
Say  I  died  true. 


120  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

"  My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth. 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 
Lightly,  gentle  earth!" 
— BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER  :  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy." 

" Oberon.    My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  rememberest 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres,  \ 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

"Puck.  I  remember. 

"Oberon.     That  very  time  I  saw,  but  thou  couldst  not, 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  armed  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal  throned  by  the  west, 
And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 
And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free." 
— SHAKESPEARE:  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  ii.   i. 

Alliteration  makes  resounding  music,  but  its  abuse  is 
too  easy.  It  requires  a  master-touch  and  the  finest  of 
Alliteration  self-restraint  to  use  it  with  that  subtlety  which 
easily  charms,  and  not  wearies  the  ear.  One  must 

not  "  hunte  the  letter  to  the  death,"  admon- 
ishes George  Gascoigne.  A  radical  defect  in  much  of 
Swinburne's  verse  is  that  it  is  bitten  by  what  John  Bur- 
roughs aptly  calls  "  a  leprosy  of  alliteration." 

"  Onomatopoeia1  is  that  principle  in  language  by  which 

1  From  the  Greek  Onoma,  name  ;  and  poieo,  make. 


MELODY  121 

words  are  formed  in  imitation  of  natural  sounds,"  says 
the  Standard  Dictionary.  Also,  "  an  imitative  word." 
Onomato-  Max  Muller  tells  us  that  "  interjections,  though 
poeia  they  cannot  be  treated  as  parts  of  speech, 

are  nevertheless  ingredients  of  our  conversation ;  so  are 
the  clicks  of  the  Bushmen  and  Hottentots,  which  have 
been  well  described  as  remnants  of  animal  speech.  Again 
there  are  in  many  languages  words,  if  we  may  call  them 
so,  consisting  of  the  mere  imitations  of  the  cries  of  ani- 
mals or  the  sounds  of  nature,  and  some  of  them  have 
been  carried  along  by  the  stream  of  language  into  the 
current  of  nouns  and  verbs,"  (Lecture  vii.). 

Such  words  as  clinch,  split,  roar,  murmur,  bubble,  whis- 
per, sibillant,  thundering,  etc.,  are  onomatopoeic. 

Onomatopoeia  is  distinctly  connotative.  An  onomato- 
poeic word  is  a  species  of  trope  which,  merely  by  the 
sound,  makes,  to  the  mind  an  image  or  picture  of  that 
which  the  word  rhetorically  expresses. 

The  examples  given  on  page  115  for  alliteration  are  all 
more  or  less  onomatopoeic.  In  the  line  "  Murmuring 
from  Glaramara,"  etc.,  the  alliterated  letters  are  m  and  r, 
which,  interweaved  with  tones  of  the  vowel  a,  give  a  sub- 
dued murmurous  echo,  very  suggestive  of  the  soft,  re- 
verberant music  of  hidden  waters.  In  the  "  league-long 
roller"  the  prolonged  vowel  cadence  could  mean  nothing 
else  but  what  it  does  mean,  and  it  is  capped  by  the 
strong  onomatopoeic  word  "  thundering."  In  the  two 
lines  beginning  "  And  moan  of  doves  "  the  web  of  m  and 
n  and  /  makes  a  subtle  onomatopoeic  murmurous  effect 
all  through  the  quotation.  There  is  a  fine  reverberation 
in  such  lines  as  these  of  Kipling: 

"  Jehovah  of  the  Thunders, 
Lord,  God  of  Battles,  aid!" 


122  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

In  the  following  lines  from  "  Paradise  Lost  "  the  sub- 
stantives, adjectives,  and  verbs  are  distinctly  onomato- 
poeic, giving  by  their  very  sound  the  sense  of  unwieldi- 
ness: 

"  That  sea-beast 

Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream." 

This  effect  is  heightened  by  the  doubled  notes  in  the  bar 
"  hugest  that."     And  again: 

— "  part,  huge  of  bulk, 
Wallowing  unwieldy,  enormous  in  their  gait, 
Tempest  the  ocean." 

These  effects  are  what  Tennyson  meant  by  the  term 
"  the  marriage  of  sense  with  sound;  "  and  happy  is  the 
poet  who  possesses  that  superlative  feeling  for  tone 
which  instinctively  supplies  the  right  word  in  colour  as 
well  as  meaning. 

There  is  a  golden  thread  of  onomatopoeia  running  all 
through  language.  In  the  imaginative  diction  of  verse 
it  becomes  more  apparent,  and  is  especially  so  in  alliter- 
ative effects.  That  alliteration  will  be  most  vivid  and 
organic  which  is  at  the  same  time  the  most  onomatopoeic. 

The  foregoing  elements  of  verse  are  indissolubly  linked 
together;  they  govern  the  euphonious  distribution  of 
vowel  and  consonant  tones,  and  so  fuse  and  combine  into 
a  perfect  whole  the  entire  verse,  that  one  may  justly 
apply  to  it  the  beautiful  term,  "  articulate  music." 

I  have  elsewhere  pointed  out  the  danger  of  over-harp- 
ing upon  one  rhyme.  When  rhyme-repetition  is  used 
arbitrarily,  and  without  purpose,  it  is  likely  to  become 


MELODY  123 

as  deadly  to  the  ear  as  the  grind  of  a  hand-organ. 
But  in  a  certain  class  of  poems,  and  when  used  with 
Rhyme-  discrimination,  rhyme  repetition  and  phrase- 
repetition  as  repetition  (refrains)  may  be  made  to  play  an 
important  part  in  the  melody  of  verse. 


verse 


melody  jn  ^e  rhyme-groups    below,    from   Tenny- 

son's "  Lotos  Eaters,"  the  iterated  tone  produces  upon 
the  ear  a  soothing,  lulling  impression,  which  is  height- 
ened in  the  first  example  by  adding  a  bar  to  each  suc- 
cessive line,  so  that  it  gives  the  effect  of  the  incoming  of 
a  lazy  tide. 


Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half  -shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 


"  Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies." 

Browning's  "A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's  "  is  made  into 
wonderful  cadences  by  binding  together  each  stanza  by 
a  single  tone. 

"  O  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find  ! 
I  can  hardly  misconceive  you ;  it  woul  d  prove  me  deaf  and  blind  ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such  a  heavy  mind  ! 


124  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

"  Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all  the  good 

it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants  were 

the  kings, 
Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea  with 

rings  ? 

"  Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red,— 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on  its 

bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might  base  his 

head?" 

Titania,  in"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  (iii.  i),  ex- 
horts the  fairies  to  care  for  Bottom  in  a  stanza  of  honeyed 
rhyme-repetition. 

"  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman; 
Hop  in  his  walks  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dew-berries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs  and  mulberries  ; 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  for  night-tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies." 

This  certainly  is  "  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 
It  would  seem  as  if  rhyme  could  be  pushed  no  farther; 
yet  it  can.  In  "  Through  the  Metidja,"  Browning  has 
achieved  a  marvellous  desert  effect  by  the  use,  through 
five  stanzas — in  all,  forty  lines — of  a  single  tone.  No 
picture-drawing  in  words  could  convey  to  the  mind 


MELODY  125 

a  more  poignant  impression  than  does  this  word-organ- 
point  of  the  immeasurable  monotony  of  the  great  desert.1 
It  is  a  consummate  touch. 

"  As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 
So  its  tide  rocks  my  side, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
That,  as  I  were  double-eyed, 
He  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 
Is  descried,  ways  untried, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

"  As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 
To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied, 
Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  pride 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 
Or  are  witnesses  denied — 
Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 
Do  I  glide  unespied 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? ' ' 


As  in  the  foregoing  poem,  we  often  find  central  rhymes 
balancing  terminal  rhymes  and  producing,  as  in  internal 
Balanced  alliteration,  much  more  subtle  effects  than  the 
term'in'aT"11  obvious  terminal  consonance.  The  internal 
cadence  music  of  the  following  song  from  Tennyson's 
"  Princess  "  is  very  delicate. 

1  Wagner  achieves  a  similar  effect  in  "  Rheingold,"  where  the  superim- 
posed melodies  of  the  Rhine  daughters  are  rippled  over  one  tremendous 
major  triad,  held  from  beginning  to  end.  By  this  cataract  of  monotonous 
tone,  he  makes  the  listener  feel  the  eternal  pulse  of  the  waters.  Both  these 
effects  are  emotional  impressions. 


126  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

"  The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

"  O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ; 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

"  O  love,  they  die  in -yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying." 

In  the  following  excerpt  from  a  poem  entitled 
"  Grishna,"  by  Sir  Edwin  Arnold,  there  is  a  splendid 
sensuous  music  produced  by  the  central  rhyme-repe- 
titions, which  are  everywhere  very  warm  in  tone. 

"  With  fierce  noons  beaming,  moons  of  glory  gleaming, 

Full  conduits  streaming,  where  fair  bathers  lie; 
With  sunsets  splendid,  when  the  strong  day,  ended, 
Melts  into  peace,  like  a  tired  lover's  sigh — 

So  cometh  summer  nigh. 

"  And  nights  of  ebon  blackness,  laced  with  lustres 

From  starry  clusters ;  courts  of  calm  retreat, 
Where  wan  rills  warble  over  glistening  marble ; 
Cold  jewels,  and  the  sandal,  moist  and  sweet — 

These  for'  the  time  are  meet." 


MELODY  127 

But  perhaps  the  crowning  example  of  repeated  tones, 
internal  and  external — producing,  as  it  were,  a  succession 
of  tonal  waves  upon  the  ear — is  to  be  found  in  Poe's 
"  Raven." 

"  Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered  weak  and 

weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tap- 
ping 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 

1  'Tis  some  visitor,'  I  muttered,  '  tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more.' 

"  Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the 

floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; — vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For   the   rare   and   radiant   maiden   whom   the  angels   name 
Lenore — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

"  And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 

'  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more.' 

"  And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on 

the  floor ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor, 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore." 


128  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

The  rich  interweaved  tones,  the  rhyme-correspond- 
ences, with  feminine  cadence,  and  the  repetitions  and 
refrains  make  this  poem,  melodically,  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  in  our  language.  The  whole  rings  with 
a  weird  melody  very  consonant  with  the  theme.  Poe, 
more  than  any  other  poet,  has  exploited  this  peculiar 
grace  of  verse;  but  in  the  "  Raven  "  he  has  touched  high- 
water  mark.  Some  of  his  other  poems — "Ullalume" 
for  instance — are  of  such  tenuity  that  one  examines  them 
more  as  essays  in  verse-tones  than  as  meaning  poems. 

This  brings  us  directly  to  the  cognate  division  of  Re- 
frains. A  refrain  (or  burden)  is  the  repetition  of  a  single 
Refrains  as  Pnrase  at  the  end  of  each  stanza  of  a  poem, 
a  factor  of  Occasionally  it  comes  in  the  middle  of  the 
stanza;  more  seldom,  at  every  two  or  three 
stanzas.  Here  is  a  ringing  refrain. 

"  My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

"  She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watch' d  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 

She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stepp'd  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 


MELODY  129 

"  The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierc'd  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana!" 

— TENNYSON  :  "  The  Ballad  of  Oriana." 

The  solemn  iteration  of  this  refrain  is  like  the  tolling 
of  a  bell,  and  thrills  the  nerves  in  the  same  way. 

Belonging  in  the  same  category  is  the  "  Sands  of  Dee." 
The  constant  repetition  of  fateful,  connotative  phrases 
holds  the  imagination  suspended  and  intensifies  the 
tragedy  of  the  situation. 

"  '  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee ; ' 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

"  The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 

The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  '  O,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
9 


THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stokes  on  Dee.' 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 

The  cruel,  hungry  foam, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee." 

— CHARLES  KINGSLEY  :  "  The  Sands  of  Dee." 


In  our  next  quotation  we  catch  the  music  of  waters. 
Compare  this  echoing,  melodious  rush  with  the  adjective- 
clang  of  "  How  the  Water  Comes  Down  at  Lodore." 
Here,  as  in  the  "  Raven,"  we  find  the  internal  conso- 
nances saturating  with  colour  the  verse,  which  is  crowned 
by  the  melodious  refrain. 

"  Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

"All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweed  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 


MELODY  131 

The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reed  sighed  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall" 

— SIDNEY  LANIER  :  "  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee."1 

Delicate  melodic  effects  are  sometimes  obtained  by 
refrain-inversions.  Thus  in  "  The  Song  of  the  River" 
Retrain-  (see  page  39)  we  read  in  the  first  line  "  Clear 
inversions  ancj  coo^  cjear  an(j  coo\t"  and  the  third  "  Cool 

and  clear,  cool  and  clear,"  the  inversion  giving  variety 
to  the  repetend.  A  charming  effect  of  refrain-inversion 
— being  indeed  the  making  of  it — occurs  in  the  following 
little  lyric. 

"  There  is  no  spring,  though  skies  be  blue  and  tender, 

And  soft  the  warm  breath  of  a  gentler  air; 
Though  scarves  of  green  veil  all  the  birches  slender, 

And  blossoms  star  the  open  everywhere. 
Though  beauty  breathe  in  every  living  thing, 
Except  thou  lovest  me — there  is  no  spring. 

"  There  is  no  winter,  though  the  sky  may  darken, 
And  chilly  death  hide  all  the  world  in  snow; 
No  sound  of  spring,  though  all  the  soul  may  hearken, 

No  message  from  the  flowers  tombed  below. 
Though  desolate  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea, 
There  is  no  winter — if  thou  lovest  me  !  " 

— ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN:  "  Love's  Calendar." 

To  get  the  very  perfection  of  repetends  and  refrains 
we  must,  however,  go  back  to  the  seventeenth  century. 

1  From  "  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier."  Copyright  1884,  1895,  by  Mary  Day 
Lanier,  and  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


I32  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Nothing  more  spontaneously  dainty  than  the  following 
exists.     Such  a  lilt  cannot  quite  be  caught  to-day. 

"  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 

"  Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  ?  " 
— SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING:  "  Why  so  Pale  and  Wan  ?  " 

But  the  scope  of  the  refrain  is,  in  the  end,  limited,  and 

limits  the  verse.     It  would  handicap  strong  emotion,  so 

,         that  in   really   fervid  verse  we   never   find   it 

Scope  of  the 

refrain  used.     The  utterance  of  passion  cannot  pause 

limited          for  studied  mellifluence. 

Besides  the  details  of  verse-music  already  illustrated, 
a  poem  should  have  a  certain  tonal  homogeneity — which 
homogeneity  is  the  result  of  unity  in  its  controlling  pur- 
pose— making  its  movements  appeal  to  us  as  a  whole. 
In  the  perfect  poem,  stanza  will  modulate  into  stanza 
sequently  and  harmoniously,  in  confluent  waves  of 
sound,  so  that  not  one  could  be  omitted  and  the  poem 
remain  quite  perfect;  for  the  lyric  unity  of  a  poem  is  its 
final  test.  This  quality  of  homogeneity,  or  lyric  unity, 
may  rightly  be  called  harmony,  because  here  the  word  is 
used  in  its  universal  sense  of  concord,  or  completeness  of 
balance. 

Thus,  having  followed  to  their  conclusion  the  under- 


• 


MELODY  133 

lying  laws,  the  formative  principles,  of  verse,  we  find 
that  verse  has  motion,  melody,  and  harmony ;  but  not 
pitch.1 

1  I  must  once  more  emphasise  the  fact  that  there  can  be  in  verse  no  such 
thing  as  musical  tonality,  or  pitch,  although  some  teachers  of  metre  claim  for 
it  this  quality.  As  I  have  elsewhere  pointed  out,  verse  is  a  single  voice,  a 
melody.  It  is  a  melody  because  it  has  rhythmic  vibration  and  tonal  inter- 
relation ;  but  the  exact  point  in  which  the  melody  of  verse  differs  from  the 
melody  of  music  is  just  this  one  of  pitch.  Music  has  definite  pitch,  but 
verse  has  no  such  quality.  The  modulations  of  the  voice  in  reading  or  re- 
citing poetry — dependent  as  they  are  upon  the  perceptive  and  interpretive 
genius  of  the  reader  or  reciter — cannot  be  so  considered. 


CHAPTER  V 

METRIC   FORMS 

CERTAIN  metrical  denominations  have  been  used  by 
certain  poets  in  certain  lands,  and  have  found  such  pop- 
ular acceptance  that  other  poets  have  imitated  the  forms, 
not  only  in  the  same  languages  and  lands  but  sometimes 
in  other  languages  and  lands;  so  that  they  have  been 
adopted  from  literature  to  literature,  and  become  as  it 
were  cosmopolitan. 

Italy  was  the  fountain-head,  not  only  of  the  literary 
thought  of  the  early  Renaissance,  but  of  most  of  the 
Italy  the  forms  into  which  that  thought  crystallised. 
fountain-  From  Italy  these  art  forms  filtered  through 

head  of  J  .  .         ,         ,     i 

metric  other  countries,  often  undergoing  local  changes 

forms  which  carried  them  into  still  further  evolutions, 

and  multiplied  variants  of  the  originals.  England — 
opened  to  all  these  new  influences  by  the  Norman  Con- 
quest— proved  a  grateful  soil  and  readily  assimilated  all 
which  came  to  it;  using  some  forms  imitatively  while 
transforming  others  to  fit  the  peculiar  demands  of  her 
language  and  her  muse,  until  they  ceased  to  be  alien,, 
became  germane  to  her  thought  and  a  part  of  her  litera- 
ture. While  some  of  the  forms — blank  verse,  for  instance 
— were  imported  directly  from  Italy,  the  immediate  chan- 
nel for  most  of  them  was  France,  where,  throughout  the 
middle  ages  and  the  early  Renaissance,  minstrelsy  of  all 
sorts  reigned  supreme.  Indeed  the  Romance  poets  of 


METRIC  FORMS  135 

southern  France  had  no  little  hand  in  shaping  the  nascent 
literatures  of  Europe. 

In  this  chapter  it  is  proposed  to  consider  first  those  so 
assimilated  as  to  be  distinctively  English,  and  afterwards 
those  which  have  been  used  in  direct  imitation  of  foreign 
models,  and  so  have  preserved  their  identity. 

No  consideration  of  English  forms  would  be  complete 
without  an  examination  of  the  one  indigenous  verse-form, 
Anglo-Saxon  the  Anglo-Saxon ;  although  it  is  true  that  the 
epic  form  Anglo-Saxon,  further  than  by  bestowing  upon 
English  poetry  the  melodic  factor  of  alliteration,  has  fur- 
nished to  it  no  forms,  and  has  left  upon  it  no  imprint. 
This  is  obviously  because  of  the  more  artistic  genius  of 
the  continental  forms,  which  prevailed  inevitably  by 
reason  of  their  inherent  fitness.  In  nothing  is  this  more 
clearly  evidenced  than  in  the  fate  of  two  great  works, 
almost  contemporaneous,  of  the  fourteenth  century; — 
William  Langland's  "  The  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plow- 
man "  (about  1362),  and  Geoffrey  Chaucer's  "  Canterbury 
Tales  "  (about  1374-1382).  Between  the  ethical  signifi- 
cance of  the  two  works  there  can  be  no  comparison. 
"  Piers  the  Plowman"  is  a  great  and  solemn  allegorical 
epic;  the  "  Canterbury  Tales  "  is  a  cycle  of  breezy  metri- 
cal romances.  But  to-day — four  centuries  later — the 
"  Canterbury  Tales  "  is  delightful  reading,  full  of  a  fresh 
realism  and  a  sparkling  humour  whose  charm  never  palls ; 
while,  except  for  the  profounder  researches  of  the 
student,  the  great  allegory  lies  forgotten  upon  dusty 
shelves.  Now  what  is  the  cause  of  the  survival  of  the 
lesser  work  in  face  of  the  oblivion  which  has  overtaken 
the  greater  ?  Simply  the  difference  in  the  forms  into 
which  they  were  cast. 

"  The  poem  of  Langland  was  forgotten.  Nor  was  any 
other  destiny  possible  to  it.  Consciously  or  uncon- 


136  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

sciously,  Langland  rejected  all  elements  of  the  common 
life  offered  from  above,  from  culture,  learning,  knight- 
hood. His  '  Visions '  are  uncouth,  primitive,  amor- 
phous; redolent  of  the  soil,  but  heavy  with  it  as  well. 
Rewrote  in  a  revival  of  the  old  alliterative  metre  dear  to 
his  Saxon  forefathers;  and  the  movement  of  his  verses 
is  that  of  the  labourer  in  the  field,  not  that  of  the  lady 
in  the  dance: — 

"  '  Duke  of  this  dim  place,  anon  undo  the  gates, 

That  Christ  may  comen  in,  the  Kinge's  son  of  heaven.' 

"  It  was  a  noble  metre;  it  had  held  sway  over  English 
poetry  for  six  hundred  years — a  far  longer  reign  than  that 
of  the  heroic  blank  verse,  its  upstart  successor.  Splen- 
did passions  had  found  expression  in  its  surging,  swaying 
lines.  Yet  when  Langland  chose  it  for  his  vehicle  it  was 
already  doomed.  Its  grave  inward  music,  its  slow  un- 
relieved majesty,  were  of  pure  Teuton  strain.  They 
could  not  satisfy  the  community  into  which  was  grad- 
ually filtering  from  above  a  new  element  and  a  new 
spirit."1 

In  the  Anglo-Saxon  versification  there  is  perceivable 
a  rough  triple  movement.  The  verse  may  be  described 
as  3/4,  with  a  sharp  caesura  in  the  middle.  The  notation 
of  the  bars  is  very  irregular,  there  sometimes  being  two 
syllables  only,  and  at  others  more  than  three. 

Also  occasionally  the  line  runs  out  longer.  This  verse 
was  recited,  or  chanted,  by  the  bards  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  their  harps ;  and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  the  volume 
of  syllables  could  be  prolonged  or  shortened  to  a  given 
cadence,  exactly  as  is  the  case  in  church  chanting  to-day, 
thus  giving  what  Lanier  calls  "  an  ordered  riot  of  sounds." 

JViDA  D.  SCUDDER  :  "  Social  Ideals  in  .English  Letters,"  chapt.  i. 
part  iv. 


METRIC  FORMS  137 

The  scheme  of  alliteration — the  only  binding  element 
which  this  verse  shows — is  in  general  two  alliterated  let- 
ters in  the  first  section,  and  one  in  the  second,  though 
this  rule  does  not  seem  absolute.  Here  is  a  short  quo- 
tation from  "  The  Battle  of  Maldon,"  sometimes  called 
'  The  Death  of  Byrhtnoth,"  a  poem  dating  about  993. 1 

"  Byrhtnoth  mathelode,  bord  hafenode, 
wand  wacne  aesc,  wordum  maelde, 
yrre  and  anraed,  ageaf  him  andsware; 
'Gehyrst  thu,  saelida,  hvvaet  this  folc  segeth  ? 
Hi  willath  eow  to  gafole  garas  syllan, 
aettrene  ord  and  ealde  swurd, 
tha  heregeatu  the  eow  act  hilde  ne  deah. 
Brimmana  boda,  abeod  eft  ongean ; 
sege  thinum  leodum  micle  lathre  spell, 
thaet  her  stent  unforcuth  eorl  mid  his  werode, 
the  wile  geealgian  ethel  thysne, 
yEthelraedes  card,  ealdres  mines, 
folc  and  foldan  :  feallan  sceolan 
haethene  aet  hilde  ! '  " 

To  this  Lanier  furnishes  the  accompanying  transla- 
tion: 

"  Byrhtnoth  cried  to  him,  brandished  the  buckler, 
shook  the  slim  ash,  with  words  made  utterance,  wrathful 
and  resolute,  gave  him  his  answer:  '  Hearest  thou,  sea- 
rover,  that  which  my  folk  sayeth  ?  Yes,  we  will  render 
you  tribute  in  javelins — poisonous  point  and  old-time 
blade — good  weapons,  yet  forward  you  not  in  the  fight. 

1  Of  the  versification  of  "  Byrhtnoth,"  Lanier  says:  "  In  most  lines  the 
three  first  bars  or  feet  begin  with  the  same  consonant  ;  in  others  the  three 
first  bars  begin  with  a  vowel,  though  not  necessarily  the  same  vowel  ;  in 
others  the  two  middle  bars  begin  with  the  same  consonant  ;  in  others  the 
first  and  third  bars  begin  with  the  same  consonant.  These  four  alliterative 
types  are  rarely  departed  from." — "  Science  of  English  Verse,"  page  145. 


138  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Herald  of  pirates,  be  herald  once  more:  bear  to  thy  peo- 
ple a  bitterer  message, — that  here  stands  dauntless  an 
earl  with  his  warriors,  will  keep  us  this  country,  land  of 
my  Lord  Prince  Athelraed,  folk  and  field:  the  heathen 
shall  perish  in  battle/  ' 

The  earliest,  most  wide-spread,  and,  in  one  way  most 
important,  verse-form  developed  in  England  is  the  Eng- 
The  English  lish  Ballad.  It  differs  from  others  in  that  it 
Ballad  w  ,s  no^  an  expression  of  literary  or  cultured 

feeling,  but  of  the  thoughts,  desires,  and  impulses  of  the 
people.  Therefore  is  it  more  spontaneous,  and  less  an 
achievement  of  artistic  craftsmanship  than  a  popular 
growth.  In  essence  it  had  for  progenitor  the  bardic  epics 
of  the  earliest  ages.  '  The  minstrels  were  an  order  of 
men  in  the  Middle  Ages,  who  subsisted  by  the  arts  of 
poetry  and  music,  and  sang  to  the  harp  verses  composed 
by  themselves  or  others.  They  also  appear  to  have 
accompanied  their  songs  with  mimicry  and  action,  and  to 
have  practised  such  various  means  of  diverting  as  were 
much  admired  in  those  rude  times,  and  supplied  the 
want  of  more  refined  entertainment.  These  arts  ren- 
dered them  extremely  popular  in  this  (England)  and  all 
the  neighbouring  countries;  where  no  high  scene  of  fes- 
tivity was  deemed  complete  that  was  not  set  off  with  the 
exercise  of  their  talents;  and  where,  so  long  as  the  spirit 
of  chivalry  subsisted,  they  were  protected  and  caressed, 
because  their  songs  tended  to  do  honour  to  the  ruling 
passion  of  the  times,  and  to  encourage  and  foment  a 
martial  spirit."  * 

Genesis  of  The  earliest  ballads  which  we  possess  are  of 
the  ballad  much  antiquity  and  considerably  antedate 
Chaucer.  This  form  of  poetry  obtained  its  greatest 

1  THOMAS  PERCY:  "  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry,"  vol.  i.; 
"  Essay  0*1  the  Minstrels." 


METRIC  FORMS  139 

dominance  in  the  northern  shires  of  England  and  in 
southern  Scotland,  thus  partaking  of  the  rugged  north- 
ern spirit.  As  it  made  its  way  southward  and  was 
adopted  into  courtly  circles,  it  became  a  more  polished 
instrument,  but  was  also  shorn  of  much  of  the  native 
vigour  and  spontaneity  of  the  earlier  verse. 

Ballads  were  doubtless  passed  orally  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  perhaps  from  generation  to  generation,  and  came 
at  last  to  be  written — those  which  were  written,  for  pre- 
sumably many  were  not — by  persons  quite  other  than 
those  who  composed  them. 

The  metric  form  which  the  ballad  took  had  of  necessity 
a  foreign  origin.  The  so-called  English  Ballad  Metre  is 
technically  a  verse  of  seven  bars  of  2-beat  rhythm  (2/7) 
with  a  strong  central  caesura  which  naturally  divides  it 
into  two  sections.  Written  in  full  it  stands  as  follows: 

rir  rir  nr  riv  rir  nr  rir 

"  Ye  gen-tle-men   of   England        who   live   at  home  at  ease 

nr  rir  nr  nr  nr  nr  nr 

How  little      do     ye  think  up  -  on  the     dangers     of     the  seas." 

This  form  was  developed  from  the  Latin  Septenary, 
which  found  its  way  to  England  with  other  foreign  influ- 
The  Latin  ences  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  "  In  late 
septenary  Latin  poetry  a  metre  had  become  common 
which  consisted  of  a  half-verse  of  four  accents,  the  last 
accent  falling  on  the  last  syllable,  joined  to  a  half-verse 
of  three  accents  with  double  (feminine)  ending:  on 
account  of  the  seven  accents  of  the  whole  verse  the 

1  The  central  bar  may  be  full,  or  may  be  filled  out  with  a  rest. 


140  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

metre  was  called  Septenarius.  It  was  furnished  with 
end-rime.  Both  in  the  church  hymns,  and  in  the  songs 
of  wandering'  clerks,'  who  strolled  from  nation  to  nation 
secure  in  their  common  language,  this  metre  was  very 
popular.  Cf.  the  following  opening  couplet  of  a  con- 
vivial song: — 

"  '  Meum  est  proposittim     in  taberna  mori 
6t  viniim  apposittim      sitienti  ori  ! ' 

"  This  measure  was  soon  used  for  English  verse."  l 
In  becoming  adopted  as  an  English  metric  medium  it 
suffered,  however,  a  certain  transformation.  For  the 
feminine  ending  of  the  Latin,  there  was  substituted  the 
sterner  masculine  ending,  for  which  the  English  poets 
have  always  had  a  strong  instinct ;  and,  correlatively 
with  the  docking  the  last  bar  of  its  unaccented  syllable, 
there  comes  the  prefixing  to  the  verse  of  the  anacrusis. 
The  cadence  of  the  verse  is  thereby  radically  altered. 
There  is  a  certain  sing-song  quality  inherent  in  this 
measure  which  rendered  it  well  adapted  to  the  simple 
airs  to  which  the  ballads  were  sung. 

Sometimes  we  find  the  ballad  metre  written  out  in 
couplets  of  2/7  verse,  as  in  the  foregoing  example.  More 
often,  however,  it  is  divided  by  the  central  pause,  and 
appears  in  a  quatrain  of  alternating  2/4  and  2/3  verse. 
Doubtless  the  former  was  the  original  form  of  the  Eng- 
lish Septenary.  Percy  mentions  that  a  number  of  ballads 
which  he  gives  in  the  "  Reliques  "  as  quatrains,  appear 
in  the  "Folio"  as  long  couplets.  Chapman,  in  his 
translation  of  Homer,  has  selected  these  long,  swinging 
lines,  which  indeed  seem  to  carry  more  dignity  than 
when  split  into  quatrains.  '  The  rushing  gallop  of  the 

1  FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE  :  "  A  Handbook  of  Poetics,"  chap.  vii. 


METRIC  FORMS  141 

long  fourteen-syllable  stanza  in  which  it  is  written  has 
the  fire  and  swiftness  of  Homer,"  comments  Stopford 
Brooke. 


"  But,  ere  stern  conflict  mixed  both  strengths,  fair  Paris  stepped 

before 

The  Trojan  host;  athwart  his  back  a  panther's  hide  he  wore, 
A  crooked  bow,  and  sword,  and  shook  two  brazen-headed  darts, 
With  which,   well  armed,   his  tongue  provoked   the  best  of 

Grecian  hearts 
To   stand   with   him  in  single  fight.     Whom  when  the  man 

wronged  most 

Of  all  the  Greeks,  so  gloriously  saw  stalk  before  the  host; 
As  when  a  lion  is  rejoiced,  with  hunger  half  forlorn, 
That  finds  some  sweet  prey,  as  a  hart,  whose  grace  lies  in  his 

horn, 

Or  sylvan  goat,  which  he  devours,  though  never  so  pursued 
With  dogs  and  men;  so  Sparta's  king  exulted  when  he  viewed 
The  fair-faced  Paris  so  exposed  to  his  thirsted  wreak 
Wherof  his  good  cause  made  him  sure." 

—GEORGE  CHAPMAN:  "  The  Iliad,"  book  III. 

And  here  is  a  fine  modern  specimen: 

"  Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged — 'tis  at  a  white  heat 

now; 
The  bellows    ceased,  the   flames   decreased,   though   on   the 

forge's  brow 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable  mound, 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  bare ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass 

there." 
— SAMUEL  FERGUSSON  :  "  The  Forging  of  the  Anchor." 


142  THE   MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

The  earliest  ballads  are  extremely  loose  in  versifica- 
tion, sometimes  running  the  line  out  beyond  metrical 
Ancient  limits,  and  often  crowding  extra  syllables  into 
ballads  f-he  bar,  so  that  in  places  the  verse  seems  for 
a  time  to  depart  into  triple  rhythm.  Indeed  some  bal- 
lads— "  MaryAmbree,"  for  instance — are  distinctly  triple 
throughout.1 

But  we  find  as  the  ballad  approaches  its  entrance  into 
literature,  it  grows  smoother  and  more  carefully  propor- 
tioned. I  give  a  few  extracts  from  Percy's  "  Reliques  of 
Ancient  Poetry."  Many  ballads  were  divided  into  parts, 
anciently  called  fits. 

"  The  Pers&  owt  of  Northombarlande,8 

And  a  vowe  to  God  mayd  he, 
That  he  wolde  hunte  in  the  mountayns 

Off  Chyviat  within  dayes  thre 
In  the  mauger  of  dought£  Dogles, 

And  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

"  The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 

He  sayd  he  wold  kill,  and  cary  them  away  : 
Be  my  feth,  sayd  the  dougheti  Dogles  agayn, 
I  wyll  let  that  hontyng  yf  that  I  may. 

"  Then  the  Pers£  owt  of  Banborowe  cam, 

With  him  a  myghtye  meany  : 
With  fifteen  hondrith  archares  bold ; 
The  wear  chosen  out  of  shyars  thre. 

1  There  are  also  many  ballads  cast  not  in  ballad  metre,  but  in  other  stan- 
zaic  forms  :  "A  Ballad  of  Luther,"  "  On  Thomas,  Lord  Cromwell,"  "  Lit- 
tle John  Nobody,"  "  Guy  and  Amarant,"  etc. 

2  Percy  assigns  "  Chevy  Chace  "  to  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury ;  but  there  are  fragmentary  ballads  of  greater  antiquity. 


J43 


This  begane  on  a  monday  at  morn 
In  Cheviat  the  hillys  so  he ; 

The  chyld  may  rue  that  ys  un-born, 
It  was  the  mor  pitte. 

The  dryvars  thorowe  the  woodes  went 

For  to  reas  the  dear ; 
Bomen  bickarte  uppone  the  bent 

With  ther  browd  aras  cleare. 


"  Then  the  wyld  thorowe  the  woodes  went 

On  every  syde  shear ; 
Grea-hondes  thorowe  the  greves  glent 

For  to  kyll  thear  dear. ' ' 
-The  Ancient  Ballad  of  "  Chevy  Chace,"  The  First  Fit. 


"  Nowe  on  the  Eldridge  hilles  He  walke 

For  thy  sake,  fair  ladie ; 
And  He  either  bring  you  a  ready  token 
Or  He  never  more  you  see. 

"  The  lady  is  gone  to  her  own  chaumbere, 

Her  maydens  following  bright : 
Syr  Cauline  lope  from  care-bed  soone, 
And  to  the  Eldridge  hills  is  gone, 
For  to  wake  there  all  night. 

"  Unto  midnight  that  the  moone  did  rise, 

He  walked  up  and  downe ; 
Then  a  lightsome  bugle  heard  he  blowe 

Over  the  bents  soe  browne  : 
Quoth  hee,   '  If  cryance  come  till  my  heart, 

I  am  ffar  from  any  good  towne.' 


144  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  And  soone  he  spyde  on  the  mores  so  broad, 

A  furyous  wight  and  fell ; 
A  ladye  bright  his  brydle  led, 
Clad  in  a  fayre  kyrtell. 

"  And  soe  fast  he  called  on  syr  Caullne, 

'  O  man,  I  rede  thee  flye, 
For,  but  if  cryance  come  till  thy  heart, 
I  weene  but  thou  mun  dye.' 

"  He  sayth,  '  No  cryance  comes  till  my  heart, 

Nor,  in  faith,  I  wyll  not  flee ; 
For,  cause  thou  minged  not  Christ  before, 
The  less  me  dreadeth  thee.'  " 

— "  Sir  Cauline,"  Part  First. 


'  I  can  beleve,  it  shall  you  greve, 

And  somewhat  you  dystrayne ; 
But,  aftyrwarde,  your  paynes  harde 

Within  a  day  or  twayne 
Shall  sone  aslake ;  and  ye  shall  take 

Comfort  to  you  agayne. 

Why  sholde  ye  ought  ?  for,  to  make  thought, 

Your  labour  were  in  vayne. 
And  thus  I  do ;  and  pray  you  to, 

As  hartely  as  I  can ; 
For  I  must  to  the  grene  vvode  go, 

Alone,  a  banyshed  man. 

Now  syth  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 

The  secret  of  your  mynde, 
I  shall  be  playne  to  you  agayne, 

Lyke  as  ye  shall  me  fynde. 


METRIC  FORMS  145 

Syth  it  is  so,  that  ye  wyll  go, 

I  wolle  not  leve  behynde ; 
Shall  never  be  sayd  the  Not-browne  Mayd 

Was  to  her  love  unkynde  : 
Make  you  redy,  for  so  am  I, 

Although  it  were  anone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone." 

— "  The  Not-browne  Mayd." 


"  He  armed  rode  in  forrest  wide 

And  met  a  damsell  faire, 
Who  told  him  of  adventures  great 
Whereto  he  gave  good  eare. 

ft  Such  wold  I  find,  quoth  Lancelot : 

For  that  cause  came  I  hither, 
Thou  seemst,  quoth  she,  a  knight  full  good, 
And  I  will  bring  thee  thither. 

"  Whereas  a  mighty  knight  doth  dwell, 

That  now  is  of  great  fame  : 
Therefore  tell  me  what  wight  thou  art, 
And  what  may  be  thy  name. 

"  My  name  is  Lancelot  du  Lake, 
Quoth  she,  it  likes  me  than ; 
Here  dwell es  a  knight  who  never  was 
Yet  matcht  with  any  man : 

• 
"  Who  has  in  prison  threescore  knights 

And  four,  that  he  did  wound ; 
Knights  of  King  Arthur's  court  they  be, 
And  of  his  table  round." 

— "  Sir  Lancelot  du  Lake." 
10 


146  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

The  smoother  movement  of  this  last  excerpt  betrays 
its  more  modern  composition.  There  is  also  a  "  Chevy 
Chase"  dating  from  Elizabeth's  day,  which  was,  until 
the  discovery  by  Bishop  Percy,  regarded  as  the  original. 
A  brief  comparison  of  the  two  shows  the  gain  in  versifi- 
cation of  the  later  one,  and  also  its  loss  in  native  aroma. 

"  God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safetyes  all ; 
A  woeful  1  hunting  once  there  did 
In  Chevy-Chace  befall ; 

"  To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  home, 

Erie  Percy  took  his  way ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborne 
The  hunting  of  that  day. 

"  The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 
Three  summer  days  to  take  ; 

"  The  cheefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 

To  kill  and  beare  away. 
These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 
In  Scotland  where  he  lay." 

—The  Modern  Ballad  of  "  Chevy-Chace." 

The  most  remarkable  ballad  of  modern  times — from 
a  literary  point  of  view,  of  any  time — is  Coleridge's 
Coleridge's  "  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner."  In  its  sub- 
jective weirdness  and  horror  it  is  quite  unique, 
its  effect  being  heightened  by  the  somewhat  broken 
rhythms,  whose  antique  atmosphere  Coleridge  has  won- 
derfully reproduced. 


METRIC  FORMS  147 

"  It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 
'  By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

'  *  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din.' 

"  He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
'  There  was  a  ship, '  quoth  he. 
'  Hold  off  !  unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon  ! ' 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropped  he. 

"  He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will." 

— "  Rime  of  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  Part  I. 


f  And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 

'  And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 
And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 
For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
'  Ah  wretch  ! '  said  they,  <  the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  wind  to  blow  ! '"       —Ibid.,  Part  II. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 


148  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS   OF    VERSE 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 
And  cried,  *  A  sail  !  a  sail  ! ' 

"With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call : 
Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

"  '  See  !  see  !   (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more 
Hither  to  work  us  weal, — 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  ! ' 

"  The  western  wave  was  all  aflame, 
The  day  was  well  nigh  done  ! 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun ;  f 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun."  — Ibid.,  Part  III, 

"  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

"  The  many  men,  so  beautiful  ! 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 
And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on ;  and  so  did  I. 

"  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay." 


METRIC  FORMS  149 

"  I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust."  — Ibid.,  Part  IV. 

Macauiay's         Later  Macaulay,   in  his  "  Lays   of  Ancient 
ballads  Rome, ' '  has  given  us  some  ringing  ballad  music. 

"  Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
To  east  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

"  East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Is  on  the  march  for  Rome." 

— T.  B.  MACAULAY:  "  Horatius." 


Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna ; 

Ho  !  matrons  of  Lucerne  ; 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those 

Who  never  shall  return. 
Ho  !  Philip,  send,  for  charity, 

Thy  Mexican  pistoles, 


150  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass 

For  thy  poor  spearmen's  souls. 
Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League, 

Look  that  your  arms  be  bright ; 
Ho  !  burghers  of  St.  Gene vi eve, 

Keep  watch  and  ward  to-night. 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant, 

Our  God  hath  raised  the  slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsels  of  the  wise, 

And  the  valour  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  his  holy  name, 

From  whom  all  glories  are ; 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord, 

King  Henry  of  Navarre." 

— T.  B.  MACAULAY:  "  Ivry." 

Alongside  of  the  ballad,  and  coeval  with  it,  there  grew 
up  another  measure  called  the  Short  Couplet.  This  is 
The  short  a  rhymed  couplet  of  2/4  verse,  usually  strict. 
couplet  jt  is  indirectly  of  Latin  origin,  but  came  into 

England  directly  from  France,  where  it  was  much  in 
vogue.  It  became  a  great  favourite.  An  early  example 
may  be  seen  in  "  The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale  "  (about 
1250).  Chaucer  employs  it  in  "  The  House  of  Fame" 
and  "  The  Boke  of  the  Duchesse." 

"  Now  herkneth,  as  T  have  you  seyd, 
What  that  I  mette  or  I  abreyd. 
Of  Decembre  the  tenthe  day, 
Whan  hit  was  night,  to  slepe  I  lay 
Right  ther  as  I  was  wont  to  done, 
And  fil  on  slepe  wonder  sone 
As  he  that  wery  was  for-go 
On  pilgrimage  myles  two — " 

—CHAUCER  :  "The  House  of  Fame." 


METRIC  FORMS  IS1 

We  perceive  this  to  be  the  favourite  metre  of  Scott, 
Byron,  Wordsworth,  and  others,  which  was  mentioned 
on  page  70  as  being  monotonous  and  without  much 
motion. 

The  Alexandrine,  or  strict  2/6  verse,  is  also  an  old 
metre,  and  came  into  England  with  those  already  de- 
Thc  scribed.  In  France  it  grew  to  be  the  classical 

Alexandrine  standard ;  but  in  England  it  has  not  put  down 
vital  roots,  and,  although  much  verse  has  been  written 
in  it,  it  embalms  nothing  with  the  stamp  of  immortality. 
The  cause  is  not  far  to  seek.  It  is  clumsy,  heavy,  in- 
elastic, and  the  caesura,  falling  always  exactly  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  line,  seems  to  jerk  it  into  two  wooden  metric 
periods.  "  The  droning  old  Alexandrine,"  Lowell  calls 
it.  Here  is  a  sample: 

"  Upon  a  thousand  swans  the  naked  Sea-Nymphs  ride 
Within  the  oozy  pools,  replenish' d  every  tide  : 
Which  running  on,  the  Isle  of  Portland  pointeth  out 
Upon  whose  moisted  skirt  with  sea-weed  fring'd  about, 
The  bastard  coral  breeds,  that,  drawn  out  of  the  brack, 
A  little  stalk  becomes,  from  greenish  turn'd  to  black : 
Which  th'  ancients,  for  the  love  that  they  to Isis  bare 
(Their  Goddess  most  ador'd)  have  sacred  for  her  hair. 
Of  which  the  Naides,  and  the  blue  Nereids  make 
Them  tawdries  for  their  necks  :  when  sporting  in  the  lake, 
They  to  their  sacred  bow'rs  the  Sea- gods  entertain." 

— MICHAEL  DRAYTON  :  "  Polyolbion, "  Second  Song. 

But,  although  the  Alexandrine  is  ill  adapted  for  sus- 
tained movement,  an  occasional  one  contrasts  well  with 
some  other  metres.  Robert  Mannyng  (about  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fourteenth  century)  wrote  a  Chronicle  of 
England  in  Alexandrines.  They  were  common  in  the 
miracle  plays,  and  even  up  to  the  time  of  Elizabeth  were 


152  THE   MUSICAL  BASIS   OF    VERSE 

greatly  in  favour ;  so  we  are  not  surprised  to  find  the  early 
drama  well  tinctured  with  them.  Marlowe  abounds  in 
Alexandrines.  There  is  also  a  fair  sprinkling  of  them  in 
Shakespeare;  and,  though  it  has  been  pointed  out  that 
these  generally  occur  divided  between  two  speakers,  this 
is  not  always  the  case;  witness  Hamlet's: 

"  What's  Hecuba  to  him  or  he  to  Hecuba," 

The  Alexandrine  was  often  combined  with  the  ballad 
metre,  as  in  the  lines  of  Surrey's: 

"  Layd  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I  were, 
I  saw  within  my  troubled  head  a  heape  of  thoughtes  appeare." 

A  halting  metrical  movement  enough ;  as  if  one  should 
Pouiter's  yoke  a  camel  with  an  ox.  This  Gascoigne 
measure  caus  <«  poulter's  measure."  1 

The  superiority  of  heroic  verse2 — strict  2/5  verse — over 
either  2/4  or  2/6  is  easily  manifest.  It  has  more  move- 
The  heroic  ment  than  the  latter,  more  strength  than  the 
rhymed  former,  and  combines  plasticity  with  dignity. 
Although  domesticated  in  England  rather  later 
than  the  other  continental  forms,  it  seems  to  have  been 
used  empirically  even  before  Chaucer  gave  it  the  mint- 
stamp  of  his  genius.  The  heroic  rhymed  couplet  has  by 
its  very  adaptedness  been  a  favourite  medium  for  metrical 
romance,  and  eventually  prevailed  above  all  others. 

1  "  Because   the   poulterer   giveth    XII    for   one  dozen  and  XIIII  for 
another." 

2  Observe  the  metric  sequence,  so  early  perfected  :  in  the  short  couplet, 
2/4  verse  ;  in  the  heroic  couplet,  2/5  verse  ;  in  the  Alexandrine,  2/6  verse  ; 
in  the  ballad  metre,  2/7  verse.     But  any  contemporary  use  of  triple  measure 
would  seem  to  be  accidental,  and  remains  unclassified. 


METRIC  FORMS  153 

Chaucer's  use  of  it  is  spontaneous  and  quaintly  charm- 
ing. 

"  Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  rote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licbur, 
Of  which  virtu  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 
That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye, 
(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages): 
Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages — " 

— CHAUCER  :  Prologue  to  "  Canterbury  Tales."  ' 

The  heroic  rhymed  couplet  was  in  use  for  early  drama 
and  was  not  readily  displaced  by  the  more  adapted  dra- 
matic medium  of  blank  verse.  Shakespeare's  earlier 
plays  abound  with  rhymed  couplets.  It  is  only  by  the 
time  of  his  middle  period — the  period  of  the  great  trage- 
dies— that  we  find  these  entirely  disappearing. 

"  Helena.     Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fair  :  O  happy  fair  ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars,  and  your  tongue's  sweet  air 
More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 
Sickness  is  catching  :  O,  were  favour  so, 
Yours  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go ; 
My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody." 
— SHAKESPEARE:  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  L,  i. 

1  Skeat  has  been  followed  in  the  quotations  from  Chaucer. 


154  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

"  Romeo.     Good  heart,  at  what  ? 

"  Benvolio.  At  thy  good  heart's  oppression. 

"  Romeo.     Why,  such  is  love's  transgression. 

Griefs  of  mine  own  lie  heavy  in  my  breast, 
Which  thou  wilt  propagate,  to  have  it  prest 
With  more  of  thine ;  this  love  that  thou  hast  shown 
Doth  add  more  grief  to  too  much  of  mine  own. 
Love  is  a  smoke  rais'd  with  the  fume  of  sighs; 
Being  purg'd,  a  fire  sparkling  in  lovers'  eyes ; 
Being  vex'd,  a  sea  nourish'd  with  lovers'  tears  : 
What  is  it  else  ?  a  madness  most  discreet, 
A  choking  gall,  and  a  preserving  sweet — 
Farewell,  my  coz. 

"  Benvolio.  Soft !  I  will  go  along; 

An  if  you  leave  me  so,  you  do  me  wrong." 

— SHAKESPEARE:  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  i.,  2. 

In  the  period  of  the  Restoration,  the  heroic  rhymed 
couplet  again  comes  to  the  front;  but  it  is  an  emascu- 
lated rhymed  couplet,  shorn  of  enjambement.  Revived 
with  authority  by  Waller  and  his  pupil,  Denham,  per- 
fected by  Dryden,  and  polished  to  the  facets  of  a  gem 
by  Pope,  it  was  made  to  sing  every  strain,  grave  or  gay. 
But  no  amount  of  scholarship  or  cleverness  could  save  it 
from  seeming  an  artificial  and  mechanical  movement; 
the  epigrammatic  periods  falling  upon  the  ear  with  the 
wearisome  regularity  of  a  machine.1 

"  Those  antique  minstrels  sure  were  Charles-like  kings, 
Cities  their  lutes,  and  subjects'  hearts  their  strings, 
On  which  with  so  divine  a  hand  they  strook 
Consent  of  motion  from  their  breath  they  took." 
— EDMUND  WALLER  :  "  Upon  His  Majesty's  Repairing  of  Paul's." 

1  The  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  romantic  poetry  had  been  over- 
flow, that  of  the  didactic,  which  followed  it,  was  the  end-stopped  distich. 


METRIC  FORMS  155 

"  O  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 
Though  deep,  yet  clear ;  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull ; 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full." 

— SIR  JOHN  DENHAM  :  "  Cooper's  Hill." 

"  '  Thy  praise  (and  thine  was  then  the  public  voice) 
First  recommended  Guiscard  to  my  choice ; 
Directed  thus  by  thee,  I  look'd,  and  found 
A  man  I  thought  deserving  to  be  crown' d; 
First  by  my  father  pointed  to  my  sight, 
Nor  less  conspicuous  by  his  native  light; 
His  mind,  his  mien,  the  features  of  his  face, 
Excelling  all  the  rest  of  human  race  : '  " 

— JOHN  DRYDEN:  "  Sigismonda  and  Guiscardo." 

"  Force  first  made  conquest,  and  that  conquest  law; 
Till  superstition  taught  the  tyrant  awe, 
Then  shar'd  the  tyranny,  then  lent  it  aid, 
And  gods  of  conquerors,  slaves  of  subjects  made; 
She,  midst  the  lightning's  blaze  and  thunder's  sound, 
When  rock'd  the  mountains  and  when  groan' d  the  ground, — 
She  taught  the  weak  to  bend,  the  proud  to  pray 
To  power  unseen,  and  mightier  far  than  they :  " 

— ALEXANDER  POPE  :  "  Essay  on  Man,"  iii.,  iv. 

In  our  own  century,  once  more  freed  and  with  the 
overflow  restored  to  it,  the  heroic  couplet  has  been  made 
to  do  fine  things.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  examples 
may  be  studied  in  Keats's  "  Lamia."  But  no  poet,  an- 
cient or  modern,  has  handled  the  heroic  couplet  with 
greater  mastery  than  Browning.  He  swings  his  periods 
along  with  a  broad,  free  movement,  which,  if  not  always 
rounded  to  perfect  grace,  is  yet  entirely  without  taint 
either  of  formalism  or  sugariness.  He  employs  it  exten- 


1 56  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

sively  in  his  romantic  poems.     I  have  room  for  only  one 
quotation: 

"  '  Since  I  could  die  now  of  the  truth  concealed, 
Yet  dare  not,  must  not  die, — so  seems  revealed 
The  Virgin's  mind  to  me,— for  death  means  peace, 
Wherein  no  lawful  part  have  I,  whose  lease 
Of  life  and  punishment  the  truth  avowed 
May  haply  lengthen, — let  me  push  the  shroud 
Away,  that  steals  to  muffle  ere  is  just 
My  penance-fire  in  snow  !     I  dare — I  must 
Live  by  avowal  of  the  truth — this  truth — 
I  loved  you.     Thanks  for  the  fresh  serpent's  tooth 
That,  by  a  prompt  new  pang  more  exquisite 
Than  all  preceding  torture,  proves  me  right ! 
I  loved  you  yet  I  lost  you  !     May  I  go 
Burn  to  the  ashes,  now  my  shame  you  know  ? '  " 

— ROBERT  BROWNING:  "  A  Forgiveness." 

Very  different  from  the  foregoing  is  the  stately  and 
melodious  Spenserian  stanza  in  that  far  from  being  in 
The  any  sense  an  evolution  or  a  growth,  it  is  the 

Spenserian  deliberate  invention  of  a  single  gifted  mind. 
Edmund  Spenser,  experimenting  with  the  vari- 
ous new  Italian  forms  which  had  recently  found  their 
way  to  England  and  bewitched  the  fancy  of  men  of  let- 
ters, produced  alone  this  noble  metric  form.  Lowell 
thus  gives  us  Spenser's  processes: 

'  The  delicious  abundance  and  overrunning  luxury  of 
Spenser  appear  in  the  very  structure  of  his  verse.  He 
found  the  ottava  rima  too  monotonously  iterative;  so, 
by  changing  the  order  of  his  rhymes,  he  shifted  the 
couplet  from  the  end  of  the  stave,  where  it  always  seems 
to  put  on  the  brakes  with  a  jar,  to  the  middle,  where  it 
may  serve  at  will  as  a  brace  or  a  bridge.  He  found  it 
not  roomy  enough,  so  first  ran  it  over  into  another  line, 


METRIC  FORMS  15 7 

and  then  ran  that  added  line  over  into  an  alexandrine, 
in  which  the  melody  of  one  stanza  seems  forever  longing 
and  feeling  forward  after  the  one  to  follow.  There  is  no 
ebb  and  flow  in  his  metre  more  than  on  the  shores  of  the 
Adriatic,  but  wave  follows  wave  with  equable  gainings 
and  recessions,  the  one  sliding  back  in  fluent  music  to  be 
mingled  with  and  carried  forward  by  the  next."  1 

Professor  Corson  repudiates  the  idea  that  the  Spen- 
serian stanza  is  built  upon  the  ottava  rima.  "  If  Spenser 
corson's  was  indebted  to  anyone  for  the  eight  lines  of 
idea  of  the  hjs  stanza,  he  was  indebted  to  his  master 
Spenserian  Chaucer,  who,  in  the  '  Monk's  Xale,'  uses  an 
stanza  eight-line  stanza  with  a  rhyme-scheme  identi- 

cal with  that  of  the  eight  heroic  lines  of  the  Spenserian 
stanza,  that  scheme  being  a  b,  a  b,  b  c,  be.  Chaucer  also 
uses  this  stanza  in  his  '  A  B  C  '  (a  Hymn  to  the  Virgin) 
in  '  L'  Envoy  de  Chaucer  a  Bukton,'  and  in  '  Ballade 
de  Vilage  sauns  Peynture.'  The  Envoy  to  his  '  Com- 
pleynte  of  a  Loveres  Lyfe  '  (or  the  Complaint  of  the 
Black  Knight)  is  also  in  this  stanza.  The  following  is  a 
stanza  from  the  '  Monk's  Tale  '  according  to  the  Ells- 
mere  text : 

"  '  Alias,  fortune  !     She  that  whilom  was 

Dredful  to  kinges  and  to  emperoures, 
Now  gaureth  al  the  peple  on  hir,  alias  ! 

And  she  that  helmed  was  in  starke  stoures, 
And  wan  by  force  tounes  stronge  and  toures, 

Shal  on  hir  heed  now  were  a  vitremyte.; 
And  she  that  bar  the  ceptre  ful  of  floures 

Shal  bere  a  distaf,  hir  cost  for  to  quyte.' 

"  By  this  rhyme-scheme  the  couplet  instead  of  being  at 
the  end  is  brought  in  the  middle,  where  it  serves  to  bind 

1  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL:  Essay  on  Spenser,  "Among  my  Books," 
vol.  ii. 


V  -V 

• :  • \\v 

158  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VER$E  .%  ..      V 


\"         A    V  W 

is  in   fact  wriat  the!".    ,V  V 
trains,  with  this  vlast  \  A \  \ 


together  the  two  quatrains.     That 
eight   verses    are,  namely,  two  quati 

line  of  the  first  and  the  first  line  of  the  second 

Formula  of  •  .  \     \  <.         \ 

Spenserian     rhyming  together.    To  these  the  poet  added  asv.^y  k 

a  supplementary  harmony,  and  in  order  to  im- 
part  a  fine  sweeping  close  to  his  stanza,  the  alexandrine, 
making  it  rhyme  with  the  second  and  fourth  verses  of 
the  second  quatrain."  * 

It  would  not  be  possible  to  define  more  clearly  than 
does  the  foregoing  eloquent  passage,  just  what  the  Spen- 
serian stanza  is,  in  metric  dignity  being  worthy  to  stand  . 
beside  the  sonnet,  while  in  rich  melodious  flow  it  cer- 
tainly surpasses  it. 

"  A  gentle  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 

Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 

Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine, 

The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde  ; 

Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield  : 

His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 

As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield : 

Full  jolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 
As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 

"  And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore, 

The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 

For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore,  • 

And  dead,  as  living  ever,  him  ador'd : 

Upon  his  shielde  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 

For  soveraine  hope  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 

Right,  faithfull,  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word; 

But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread  but  ever  was  ydrad." 

— "  Faerie  Queene,"  book  i.,  canto  i. 

1  HIRAM  CORSON  :  "  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  chap.  vii. 


METRIC  FORMS 


59 


"  Eftsoones  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare, 
Such  as  attonce  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  Paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere  : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  heare, 
To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee  ; 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee  ; 

Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree. 

"  The  joyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefull  shade 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet  ; 
Th'  Angel  icall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet  ; 
^With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall  ; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet, 
>w  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call  ; 
g  wind  low  answered  to  all." 
—  "  Faerie  Queene,"  book  ii.,  canto  xii. 


iser  was  the  teacher  of  many  subsequent  poets, 
of  those  who  did  not  directly  imitate  him  ;  for  his 
rate  effects  are  an  education  in  themselves.1  We 
trace  his  influence  peculiarly  in  some  of  the  modern 
poets.  In  the  revival  of  artistic  feeling,  which  began  in 
the  latter  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  culminated 
in  the  noble  music  of  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth, 
the  Spenserian  stanza  came  greatly  into  favour. 

Professor  Corson  points  out  its  "  signal  adaptedness  to 
elaborate  pictorial  effect;  "  and  therefore  it  offers  a  good 
medium  to  the  objective  poet,  especially  the  objective 
poet  of  exotic  imagination.  It  requires  a  preeminent 

1  "  No  man  contributed  so  much  to  the  transformation  of  style  as 
Spenser.  By  the  charm  of  his  diction,  the  harmonies  of  his  verse,  his  ideal 
method  of  treatment,  and  the  splendour  of  his  fancy,  he  made  the  new  man- 
ner popular  and  fruitful."  —  LOWELL  :  Essay  on  Spenser,  "  Among  my 
Books,"  vol.  ii. 


160  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

feeling  for  colour  as  well  as  an  immense  mastery  of 
rhyme-effects;  and  these  qualities  the  Georgian  poets  to 
Followers  an  unusual  degree  possessed.  I  was  enticed," 
of  Spenser  savs  Shelley, ' '  by  the  brilliancy  and  magnificence 
of  sound  which  a  mind  that  has  been  nourished  upon 
musical  thoughts  can  produce  by  a  just  and  harmonious 
arrangement  of  the  pauses  of  this  measure."  Thomson, 
Shenstone,  Beattie,  Burns,  Campbell,  Scott,  Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  Keats,  and  Byron  have  all  used  this  measure 
with  more  or  less  splendour.  It  seems  rather  strange  that 
Tennyson  and  Browning,  with  their  abounding  vocabu- 
laries, and  great  mastery  of  metric  and  tonal  effects,  have 
not  affected  the  Spenserian  stanza.  The  five  opening 
stanzas  of  the  "  Lotos  Eaters  "  move  in  it,  but  the  theme 
quickly  melts  into  a  looser  and  more  fluid  movement. 
The  student  who  desires  to  sound  the  heights  and  depths 
of  this  verse-form  will  find  it  treated  at  great  length  and 
with  superlative  luminousness  in  Professor  Corson's 
"  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  chapters  vii.  and  viii. 

I  append  a  few  modern  examples.  Keats's  verse  will 
be  seen  to  be  the  closest  in  sensuous  melody  to  that  of 
the  master;  Byron's,  full  of  a  fire  and  vigour  of  which  the 
master  never  dreamed;  Shelley's,  touched  with  that 
ethereal,  almost  disembodied  quality  which  it  was  his 
privilege  alone  among  poets  to  infuse  into  verse. 

"  Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half-anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettledrum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : 

The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 


METRIC  FORMS  l 

"  And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavender' d, 
While  he  forth  from  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  smoother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one 

From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon." 

—KEATS  :  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 

"  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 

And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather' d  then 

Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 

The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 

A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 

Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spoke  again 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

"  Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No;  'twas  but  the  wind 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 

On  with  the  dance  !  Let  joy  be  unconfined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 

But  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 

And  nearer,  cleajer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  Arm  !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar  !  " 

—BYRON:  "  Childe  Harold,"  iii. 

"  Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep  ! 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life. 
'Tis  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
ii 


1 62  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS   OF   VERSE 

And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.      We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 

"  He  has  out-soar' d  the  shadow  of  our  night. 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again. 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure  ;  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey,  in  vain — 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceasM  to  burn, 

With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

"  He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonai's. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone  ! 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains  !  and,  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 

Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 

"  He  is  made  one  with  Nature.     There  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird. 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone; 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own, 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 

Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above." 

—SHELLEY  :  "  Adonai's." 


METRIC  FORMS  163 

"  The  blasts  of  autumn  drive  the  winged  seeds 
Over  the  earth, — next  come  the  snows,  and  rain, 
And  frosts,  and  storms,  which  dreary  Winter  leads 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train ; 
Behold  !  Spring  sweeps  over  the  world  again, 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  ethereal  wings ; 
Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits  over  the  plain, 
And  music  on  the  waves  and  woods  she  flings, 

And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on  lifeless  things. 

"  O  Spring  !  of  hope  and  love  and  youth  and  gladness 
Wind-winged  emblem  !  brightest,  best,  and  fairest ! 
Whence  comest  thou,  when  with  dark  Winter's  sadness 
The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  ? 
Sister  of  joy  !  thou  art  the  child  who  wearest 
Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet; 
Thy  mother  Autumn,  for  whose  grave  thou  bearest 
Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers,  with  gentle  feet 

Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  winding  sheet."  * 
— SHELLEY  :  "  Revolt  of  Islam,"  ix. 

It  is  Professor  Corson's  opinion  that  the  resources  of 
the  Spenserian  stanza  are  far  from  exhausted.  Perhaps 
future  poets  will  come  to  it,  and,  with  that  concentrated 
spiritual  power  which  ever-advancing  thought  brings  to 
the  soul  of  genius,  touch  this  rich  and  responsive  instru- 
ment into  a  music  still  undreamed. 

The  EHza-          I  place  the  Elizabethan  sonnet — often  called 
bethanor       the  Shakespearean    sonnet — here,  rather  than 

Shake-  .  . 

spearean         after  its  great   Italian  congener,  because  it  is 
sonnet  suj  generis — specifically    English,    and     has    a 

beauty  all  its  own.     It  consists  indeed  of  a  lyric  of  four- 

1  The  feminine  endings  in  this  stanza  simply  double  the  melody ;  and, 
with  the  fine  instinct  of  the  great  artist,  Shelley  does  not  persist  in  them  to 
the  end,  which  would  make  weakness  of  the  stanzaic  climax,  but  comes 
back  in  the  finish-rhyme  to  the  masculine  ending. 


164  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

teen  lines  of  heroic  verse,  but  there  the  relation  ends ;  for 
it  conforms  neither  to  the  structural  canons  of  the  legiti- 
mate sonnet  nor  to  its  organic  sequence. 

Surrey  is  generally  conceded  to  have  brought  the  son- 
net to  England,  and  both  he  and  Wyat  made  early  essays 
in  this  form,1  but  its  technicalities  appear  to  have  made 
small  impression  upon  the  teeming  Elizabethan  genius, 
fecund  enough  for  all  its  own  needs.  The  Elizabethan 
poets  adopted  the  outline  only,  and  filled  out  the  details 
to  suit  themselves. 

The  Elizabethan  sonnet  is  really  an  aggregation  of 
three  quatrains  capped  by  a  couplet.  There  is  generally 
no  tonal  connection  between  the  quatrains,  although 
occasionally  we  find  one  in  which  the  finish-rhyme  of  the 
first  quatrain  is  made  the  off-rhyme  of  the  second;  and  in 
Spenser's  M  Amoretti  "  this  scheme  extends  even  into  the 
third  quatrain.  Drummond  uses  two  alternating  rhymes 
through  the  first  two  quatrains.  There  appears  to  have 
been  no  fixed  model,  but  each  singer  followed  his  own 
feeling  for  tone.  The  couplet  is  again  distinct  tonally, 
and,  quite  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  Italian  sonnet, 
enfolds  the  subjective  climax. 

This  loosely-hung  framework  was  admirably  adapted 
to  the  independent  genius  of  the  age,  which  for  the  most 
part  preferred  evolving  its  own  art-forms  to  imitating 
those  already  formulated.  Most  of  the  contemporary 
poets  seem  to  have  tried  their  hands  at  sonnet  writing, 
prominent  names  being  those  of  Shakespeare,  Spenser, 
Sidney,  Daniel,  Drummond,  Drayton,  Donne,  Chapman, 
etc..  Among  these,  Shakespeare  is  easily  first. 

1  There  are  other  Elizabethan  sonnets  which  follow  the  Italian  model  as 
far  as  the  octave  is  concerned,  but  become  loose  in  the  sestet.  Of  such. is 
Sidney's  famous  and  beautiful  "  With  how  wan  steps,  O  Moon,"  which  ends 
with  the  characteristic  Elizabethan  and  non-Italian  couplet. 


METRIC  FORMS  165 

"  Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest, 
Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wander' st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st; 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee." 

SHAKESPEARE  :  XVIII. 

"  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste  : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight : 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end." 

— SHAKESPEARE  :  XXX. 

"  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  : 


1 66  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

O  no  !  it  is  an  ever- fixed  mark 
That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved." 

— SHAKESPEARE  :  CXVL 


Like  as  a  ship  that  through  the  ocean  wide 
By  conduct  of  some  star  doth  make  her  way, 
Whenas  a  storm  hath  dimm'd  her  trusty  guide, 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray, — 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray 
Me  to  direct,  with  clouds  is  over-cast, 
Do  wander  now  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  plac'd : 
Yet  hope  I  well  that  when  this  storm  is  past, 
My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  life, 
Will  shine  again  and  look  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  clear  my  cloudy  grief. 

Till  then  I  wander  careful,  comfortless, 

In  secret  sorrow  and  sad  pensiveness." 

—SPENSER  :  XXXIV. 


Dear,  why  should  you  command  me  to  my  rest, 
When  now  the  night  doth  summon  all  to  sleep  ? 
Methinks  this  time  becometh  lovers  best : 
Night  was  ordain'd  together  friends  to  keep. 
How  happy  are  all  other  living. things, 
Which  though  the  day  disjoin  by  several  flight, 


METRIC  FORMS  167 

The  quiet  Evening  yet  together  brings, 

And  each  returns  unto  his  love  at  night ! 

O  thou  that  art  so  courteous  unto  all, 

Why  shouldst  thou,  Night,  abuse  me  only  thus, 

That  every  creature  to  his  kind  dost  call, 

And  yet  'tis  thou  dost  only  sever  us  ? 
Well  could  I  wish  it  would  be  ever  day, 
If,  when  night  comes,  you  bid  me  go  away." 

— MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

"  Dear  quirister,  who  from  those  shadows  sends, 
Ere  that  the  blushing  dawn  dare  show  her  light, 
Such  sad  lamenting  strains,  that  night  attends 
(Become  all  ear),  stars  stay  to  hear  thy  plight; 
If  one  whose  grief  even  reach  of  thought  transcends, 
Who  ne'er  (not  in  a  dream)  did  taste  delight, 
May  thee  importune  who  like  case  pretends ; 
And  seems  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe's  despite; 
Tell  me  (so  may  thou  fortune  milder  try, 
And  long,  long  sing)  for  what  thou  thus  complains, 
Sith,  winter  gone,  the  sun  in  dappled  sky 
Now  smiles  on  meadows,  mountains,  woods  and  plains  ? 
The  bird,  as  if  my  questions  did  her  move, 
With  trembling  wings  sobb'd  forth,  I  love,  I  love  !  " 

— WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 

Alien  metric       We  now  pass  to  the  consideration  of  alien 
forms  metric  forms. 

The  Italian,  or  legitimate  sonnet,  is  the  greatest  of  ex- 
istent fixed  metric  forms.     It  has  endured  in 

I  he  Italian 

or  legitimate  undimmed  lustre  for  five  centuries,  has  pen- 
etrated to  many  lands,  and  been  adopted  into 
many  literatures.     It  appears  to  be  of  Provengal  origin,1 

1  "  The  sonnet  passed  through  many  changes,  in  the  length  of  the  verses, 
the  order  of  the  rhymes,  the  addition  of  tails  or  rondellos  ;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  regular  sonnet  of  fourteen  lines,  with  the  rhymes  as  in  Type 


1 68  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

and  to  have  passed  through  a  moulding  process  in  vari- 
ous hands  until,  in  Dante's,  it  became  the  perfectly 
attuned  instrument. 

Petrarch,  in  his  famous  cycles  to  Laura,  gave  it  its  final 
polish,  and  made  it  universally  popular.  Even  to  his 
time  this  and  kindred  forms  seem  to  have  been  always 
allied  with  music,  and  to  have  been  not  recited  but  sung.1 

Mr.  Tomlinson  tells  us  that  "  Petrarch  sang  his  verses 
to  the  sound  of  his  lute,  which  he  bequeathed  in  his  will 
to  a  friend,  and  we  are  told  that  his  voice  was  sweet  and 
flexible,  and  of  considerable  compass;  it  is  also  said  that 
such  was  the  magic  of  his  song  that  the  gravest  persons 
were  accustomed  to  go  away  repeating  or  humming  the 
words. ' '  Other  great  sonnet  writers  were  Tasso,  Ariosto, 
and,  later,  Michael  Angelo  and  Vittoria  Colonna. 

The  sonnet  is  a  lyric  of  fourteen  lines  of  heroic  verse 
in  special  tonal  arrangement.  There  must  be  one  lead- 
ing or  governing  idea  or  sentiment.  Metrically  it  is 
divided  into  two  sections,  the  octave  and  the  sestet.  In 
the  octave  the  motive  or  theme  is  developed,  finding  its 
climax  there.  The  sestet  becomes  a  sort  of  commentary 

III,  was  in  use  as  early  as  1321,  such  a  sonnet  being  written  by  Guglielmo 
degli  Amalricchi  in  honour  of  Robert,  King  of  Naples.  In  Italy,  the  son- 
net, in  the  hands  of  Fra  Guittone  d'Arezzo,  Dante,  Cino,  and,  lastly, 
Petrarch,  was  perfected  ;  and  it  seems  probable  that  these  great  masters  re- 
ceived from  the  Provenfal  poets  the  form  of  the  sonnet  as  well  a  that  of 
the  canzone,  the  sestina,  the  ballata,  etc." — CHARLES  TOMLINSON  •  "  The 
Sonnet ;  its  Origin,  Structure,  and  Place  in  Poetry,"  part  i.,  p.  16 

J"  As  the  words  sonetto  and  canzone  imply  (from  picol  suono,  a  small 
sound  or  composition,  and  dal  canto),  they  were  sung  with  a  musical  ac- 
companiment, in  common  with  all  lyric  poetry,  and  had  reference  to  the 
composer's  own  feelings.  As  the  Horatian  lyrics  merged  into  the  rhyming 
verses  of  the  monks,  and  scansion  gave  way  to  accent,  these  probably  gave 
rise  to  the  poems  of  the  troubadours  (trovatori  ;  i.e.,  inventors)  of  the  early 
part  of  the  eleventh  century." — CHARLES  TOMLINSON  :  "  The  Sonnet,"  part 
i.,  p.  9. 


METRIC  FORMS  169 

or  reflection — the  moral  as  it  were — upon  the  octave, 
declining  in  stress  of  feeling  so  that  the  poem  ends  tran- 
quilly.1 One  might  characterise  the  octave  as  a  crescendo 
passage,  and  the  sestet  as  a  diminuendo. 

Mr.  Theodore  Watts  has  thus  beautifully  symbolised 
the  spirit  of  the  sonnet. 

"  Yon  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 

Fall  back  in  foam  beneath  the  star-shine  clear, 
The  while  my  rhymes  are  murmuring  in  your  ear 

A  restless  lore  like  that  the  billows  teach; 

For  on  these  sonnet-waves  my  soul  would  reach 
From  its  own  depths,  and  rest  within  you,  dear, 
As  through  the  silvery  billows  yearning  here 

Great  Nature  strives  to  find  a  human  speech. 

"  A  sonnet  is  a  wave  of  melody  : 

From  heaving  waters  of  the  impassioned  soul 
A  billow  of  tidal  music  one  and  whole 
Flows  in  the  '  octave  '  ;  then,  returning  free, 

Its  ebbing  surges  in  the  '  sestet '  roll 
Back  to  the  deeps  of  Life's  tumultuous  sea." 

— THEODORE  WATTS  :  "  The  Sonnet's  Voice." 

The  severest  idea  of  the  sonnet  makes  a  subdivision  of 
the  octave  and  also  of  the  sestet,  halving  the  former  into 
two  quatrains  (Basi  or  bases),  and  the  latter  into  two 
tercets  (Volte  or  turnings),  all  of  which  divisions  are 
periodically  distinct  from  each  other.  But  it  is  notice- 
able that  the  animus  of  the  sonnet  in  English  is  against 
subdivision  and  toward  entire  unity  of  movement,  thus 
differentiating  somewhat  from  its  model.  Octave  flows 

1 "  In  short,  the  quatrains  should  contain  the  proposition  and  proof,  the 
tercets,  its  confirmation  and  conclusion." — CHARLES  TOMLINSON  :  "The 
Sonnet,"  part  i.,  p.  28. 


170  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

into  sestet  in  one  continuous  thought-wave.  And  I  may 
state  here  that  all  Italian  forms  in  assuming  English 
dress  substitute  the  typical  English  masculine  ending  for 
the  typical  Italian  feminine  ending. 

The  rhyme-scheme  of  the  sonnet  is  a  strict  one,  the 

octave  admitting  of  two  rhymes  only;  the  sestet,  of  either 

two  or  three.     The  arrangement  of  rhymes  in 

Formula  of 

theiegiti-  the  octave  is  always  the  same,  only  those  in 
mate  sonnet  ^  sestet  permitting  variation.  Furthermore, 
the  colours  of  the  rhymes  in  octave  and  sestet  should  be 
as  far  as  possible  contrasted.  Mr.  Tomlinson,  in  his 
study  of  the  Petrarchan  sonnet,  classes  these  in  three 
typic  groups.1  Thus: 

TYPE  I.  TYPE  II.  TYPE  III. 

Octave      1221,  1221,        1221,  1221,         1221,  1221, 

Sestet  345,    345,  343*    434,  345,    435- 

Of  these  the  first  type  is  regarded  as  the  purest.  Pro- 
fessor Corson,  in  Chapter  X.  of  the  "  Primer  of  English 
Verse,"  gives  a  detailed  and  careful  analysis  of  a  great 
number  of  sonnets  upon  these  lines. 

It  is  not  until  Milton  that  we  find  the  Italian  sonnet 
reproduced  in  its  purity  in  England.  Milton's  visit  to 
Milton's  Italy  (1638),  his  intimate  reception  there,  and 
sonnets  fa{s  predilection  for  the  literature  of  the  land 
would  naturally  saturate  him  with  a  feeling  for  its  pre- 
dominant form,  while  the  severe  type  of  the  lyric,  with 
its  measured  cadences,  would  appeal  to  his  classically- 
trained  intellect.  The  Miltonic  sonnets  were  thrown  out 
from  time  to  time  between  the  stress  of  other  work  and 
as  occasion  prompted.  We  find  Milton's  sonnets  ele- 

1  Twenty-seven  others  are  outside  of  these  formulas  and  classed  as  ir- 
regular. 


METRIC  FORMS  i?1 

vated,  stately,  and  resonant; — full  of  "  a  mighty  sweep 
of  music,"  as  Mr.  Hall  Caine  hath  it. 

The  next  name  identified  with  the  sonnet  is  that  of 
Wordsworth.  There  is  a  certain  order  of  mind  and  a 
Words-  certain  quality  of  subject  to  which  the  sonnet 
worth's  form  presents  itself  as  a  specially  fitting  instru- 
ment. This  order  of  mind  and  this  quality  of 
subject  were  Wordsworth's  to  a  superlative  degree;  and 
his  exercise  of  them  places  him  at  the  head  of  English 
sonnet  writers.  Wordsworth's  sonnets  are  looser  in  form 
than  Milton's,  but  wider  in  sympathy,  and  strike  a  higher 
spiritual  note.  He  moved  serenely  and  easily  in  that 
upper  stratum  of  air  where  many  suffer  from  shortness 
of  breath — metrically  as  well  as  metaphorically — and 
where  others  still  never  find  their  way  at  all. 

We  have  also  noble  sonnets  from  the  hands  of  Keats, 
Shelley,  and  Byron ;  since  which  time  a  mighty  inunda- 
tion has  loosed  itself  upon  the  world. 

Among  Victorian  sonneteers,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 
is  by  many  considered  preeminent.  Mrs.  Browning's 
Modern  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,"  though  some- 
sonnets  what  loose  in  form,  take  high  rank  for  their 
power,  passion,  and  purity. 

"  Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth 

Wisely  hast  shunn'd  the  broad  way  and  the  green, 
And  with  those  few  art  eminently  seen, 

That  labour  up  the  hill  of  heavenly  truth, 

The  better  part  with  Mary  and  with  Ruth 
Chosen  thou  hast ;  and  they  that  overwean, 
And  at  thy  growing  virtues  fret  their  spleen, 

No  anger  find  in  thee,  but  pity  and  ruth. 

Thy  care  is  fix'd,  and  zealously  attends 

To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds  of  light, 

hope  that  reaps  not  shame.     Therefore  be  sure 


172  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Thou,  when  the  bridegroom  with  his  feastful  friends 
Passes  to  bliss  at  the  mid  hour  of  night, 
Hast  gain'd  thy  entrance,  virgin  wise  and  pure." 

— MILTON  :  "  To  a  Virtuous  Young  Lady." 

"  Avenge,  O  Lord,  tfry  slaughter' d  saints,  whose  bones 

Lie  scatter'd  on  the  Alpine  Mountains  cold; 

Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipp'd  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 

Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese  that  rolPd 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyr' d  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred  fold,  who,  having  learn'd  thy  way, 

Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe." 
— MILTON  :  "  On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont." 

"  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 

And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn, 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his. wreathed  horn." 

— WORDSWORTH. 


METRIC  FORMS  1 73 

"  Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour; 

England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men : 

Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea ; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free; 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  itself  did  lay." 

— WORDSWORTH. 

"  And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech 
The  love  I  bear  thee,  finding  words  enough, 
And  hold  the  torch  out,  while  the  winds  are  rough, 

Between  our  faces  to  cast  light  on  each?  — 

I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.     I  cannot  teach 
My  hand  to  hold  my  spirit  so  far  off 
From  myself — me — that  I  should  bring  thee  proof 

In  words,  of  love  hid  in  me  out  of  reach. 

Nay,  let  the  silence  of  my  womanhood 
Commend  my  woman-love  to  thy  belief, — 

Seeing  that  I  stand  unwon,  however  wooed, 
And  rend  the  garment  of  my  life,  in  brief, 

By  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless  fortitude, 

Lest  one  touch  of  this  heart  convey  its  grief." 

— ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  :  XIII. 

"  When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point, — what  bitter  wrong 


174  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not  long 
Be  here  contented  ?     Think.     In  mounting  higher, 
The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and  aspire 

To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 

Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved, — where  the  unfit 

Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 

A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 

With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it." 

—ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  :  XXI I. 

"  O  Lord  of  all  compassionate  control, 

O  Love  !  let  this  my  lady's  picture  glow 
Under  my  hand  to  praise  her  name,  and  show 
Even  of  her  inner  self  the  perfect  whole : 
That  he  who  seeks  her  beauty's  furthest  goal, 
Beyond  the  light  that  the  sweet  glances  throw 
And  refluent  wave  of  the  sweet  smile,  may  know 
The  very  sky  and  sea-line  of  her  soul. 

"  Lo  !  it  is  done.     Above  the  long  lithe  throat 
The  mouth's  mould  testifies  of  voice  and  kiss, 
The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  foresee. 
Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.     Let  all  men  note 
That  in  all  years  (O  Love,  thy  gift  is  this  !) 
They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come  to  me." 

— DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  :  "  The  Portrait." 

"  Dusk-haired  and  gold-robed  o'er  the  golden  wine 
She  stoops,  wherein,  distilled  of  death  and  shame, 
Sink  the  black  drops;  while,  lit  with  fragrant  flame, 

Round  her  spread  board  the  golden  sunflowers  shine. 

Doth  Helios  here  with  Hecate  combine 

(O  Circe,  thou  their  votaress  !)  to  proclaim 
For  these  thy  guests  all  rapture  in  Love's  name, 

Till  pitiless  Night  give  Day  the  countersign  ? 


METRIC  FORMS  175 

"  Lords  of  their  hour,  they  come.     And  by  her  knee 
Those  cowering  beasts,  their  equals  heretofore, 
Wait;  who  with  them  in  new  equality 

To-night  shall  echo  back  the  unchanging  roar 
Which  sounds  forever  from  the  tide-strown  shore 
Where  the  dishevelled  seaweed  hates  the  sea." 

— DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  :  "  The  Wine  of  Circe." 

The  sonnet  has  very  little  motion,  and — Wordsworth 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding — it  is  not  "  a  trumpet." 
Rather  is  it  a  silver  flute  through  which  the  adept  may 
breathe  an  esoteric  music, — and  the  adepts  are  fewer 
than  is  commonly  supposed.  For,  while  it  is  compara- 
tively easy  to  write  to  the  formal  metric  requirements,  it 
is  another  thing  to  strike  real  music  therefrom.  Person- 
ally I  am  somewhat  inclined  to  side  with  Ben  Jonson, 
who  has  likened  the  sonnet  to  the  bed  of  Procrustes. 
This  is  not  to  defame  the  truly  great  sonnets  which  en- 
rich our  literature,  but  merely  to  suggest  that  the  aver- 
age singer  will  be  likely  to  sing  more  notably  if  he  clothe 
the  average  idea  in  a  few  short  stanzas  of  looser  and  more 
mobile  construction. 

Sonnet  writing  is  valuable  metric  drill,  and  it  is  well 
for  the  student  to  master  the  form ;  but  the  sonnet  habit 
is  a  bad  one  to  acquire,  as  it  tends  to  impede  growth  to 
larger  flights. 

The  ottava  rima  has  already  been  noticed  as  occupying 
the  attention  of  the  Elizabethans.  It  is  the  measure  of 
The  ottava  Tasso  and  of  Ariosto,  and  consists,  as  its  name 
rima  indicates,  of  an  octave,  or  stanza  of  eight  lines 

— these  lines  being  of  heroic  verse.  The  rhyme-scheme 
is  two  alternating  rhymes  in  the  first  six  lines,  the  final 
two  being  a  rhymed  couplet :  thus ; — # ,  3,  a,  b,  a,  b,  c,  c. 

It  has  nothing  like  the  dignity  and  melodious  flow  of 
the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  the  iterated  rhymes  of  the 


1 76  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

first  six  lines  are  inclined  to  cloy  the  English  ear,  attuned 
to  more  virile  tone-contrasts;  but  its  facility  as  a  form 
naturally  invites  experiment,  and  it  is  a  measure  often 
employed  by  our  own  poets.  In  1600  Fairfax  published 
a  stanza-for-stanza  translation  of  Tasso's  "  Gerusalemme 
Liberata,"  which  still  holds  high  rank  in  our  literature. 
Fairfax's  muse  was  much  influenced  by  the  "  Faerie 
Queene,"  published  a  few  years  earlier.  Milton  drops 
into  ottava  rima  in  the  epilogue  to  "  Lycidas,"  although, 
not  being  stanzaically  separated,  this  is  not  very  patent  to 
the  eye.  Byron  employs  it  in  "  Don  Juan,"  "  Beppo," 
'J  Morgante  Maggiore,"  and  "  The  Vision  of  Judgment." 
Keats  uses  it  for  "  Isabella  and  the  Pot  of  Basil;"  and 
Shelley,  in  "  The  Witch  of  Atlas."  Keats  and  Shelley 
have  wrung  the  most  music  from  it ;  but  to  Byron  it 
seems  to  have  stood  for  the  medium  of  satire  and 
mockery. 

"  The  purple  morning  left  her  crimson  bed, 

And  donned  her  robes  of  pure  vermilion  hue, 

Her  amber  locks  she  crowned  with  roses  red, 
In  Eden's  flowery  gardens  gathered  new. 

When  through  the  camp  a  murmur  shrill  was  spread, 
Arm,  arm,  they  cried ;  arm,  arm,  the  trumpets  blew, 

Their  merry  noise  prevents  the  joyful  blast, 

So  hum  small  bees,  before  their  swarms  they  cast. 

"  Their  captain  rules  their  courage,  guides  their  heat, 
Their  forwardness  he  stayed  with  gentle  rein; 

And  yet  more  easy,  haply,  were  the  feat 
To  stop  the  current  near  Charybdis  main, 

Or  calm  the  blustering  winds  on  mountains  great, 
Than  fierce  desires  of  warlike  hearts  restrain; 

He  rules  them  yet,  and  ranks  them  in  their  haste, 

For  well  he  knows  disordered  speed  makes  waste. 


METRIC  FORMS  1 77 

"  Feathered  their  thoughts,  their  feet  in  wings  were  dight, 

Swiftly  they  marched,  yet  were  not  tired  thereby, 
For  willing  minds  make  heaviest  burdens  light. 
But  when  the  gliding  sun  was  mounted  high, 
Jerusalem,  behold,  appeared  in  sight, 

Jerusalem  they  view,  they  see,  they  spy, 
Jerusalem  with  merry  noise  they  greet, 
With  joyful  shouts  and  acclamations  sweet." 
— EDWARD  FAIRFAX:  "  Jerusalem  Delivered,"  book  Hi.1 

"  And  tall  and  strong  and  swift  of  foot  were  they, 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions, 

Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the  prey 

Of  care  or  gain  :  the  green  woods  were  their  portions. 

No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  grey; 
No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions ; 

Simple  they  were,  not  savage ;  and  their  rifles 

Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

"  Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers, 

And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 
Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers ; 

Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil ; 
The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendour  which  encumbers 

With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil ; 
Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 
Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods." 

— BYRON:  "  Don  Juan,"  viii.,  66,  67. 

"  All  day  the  wizard  lady  sat  aloof; 

Spelling  out  scrolls  of  dread  antiquity 
Under  the  cavern's  fountain-lighted  roof; 
Or  broidering  the  pictured  poesy 

1  These  stanzas  are  taken  from  Morley's   1890  edition,  "The  Carisbrooke 
Library." 

12 


178  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Of  some  high  tale  upon  her  growing  woof, 

Which  the  sweet  splendour  of  her  smiles  could  dye 
In  hues  outshining  heaven — and  ever  she 
Added  some  grace  to  the  wrought  poesy  : — 

"  While  on  her  hearth  lay  blazing  many  a  piece 
Of  sandal  wood,  rare  gums,  and  cinnamon. 

Men  scarcely  know  how  beautiful  fire  is ; 
Each  flame  of  it  is  as  a  precious  stone 

Dissolved  in  ever-moving  light,  and  this 
Belongs  to  each  and  all  who  gaze  thereon. 

The  witch  beheld  it  not,  for  in  her  hand 

She  held  a  woof  that  dimmed  the  burning  brand. 

"  This  lady  never  slept,  but  lay  in  trance 

All  night  within  the  fountain — as  in  sleep. 
Its  emerald  crags  glowed  in  her  beauty's  glance  : 

Through  the  green  splendour  of  the  waters  deep 
She  saw  the  constellations  reel  and  dance 
Like  fireflies — and  withal  did  ever  keep 
The  tenour  of  her  contemplations  calm, 
With  open  eyes,  closed  feet,  and  folded  palm." 

—SHELLEY  :  "  The  Witch  of  Atlas." 

A  third  prominent  Italian  form  is  the  terza  rima,  the 
verse-form  of  Dante's  "  Divina  Commedia."  It  is  really 
The  terza  a  much  greater  form  than  the  ottava  rima,  but 
rima  }ias  been  less  imitated  in  English,  owing  to  its 

technical  difficulties.  The  successive  interlaced  triplets 
of  rhyme  are  so  taxing  that  it  requires  power  of  a  high 
order  to  maintain  a  sostenuto  movement  which  shall  never 
either  descend  into  the  trivial  nor  hack  out  into  the 
mechanical.  The  terza  rima  (literally  third  rhyme)  is  an 
unending  succession  of  interlaced  tercets,  the  rhyme- 
scheme  being  a  b  a,  b  c  b,  c  d  c,  d  e  d,  etc.,  ad  infini- 
tum.  Thus  the  first  line  and  the  third  of  each  tercet 


METRIC  FORMS  179 

rhyme,  while  between  them  is  constantly  introduced  a 
new  tone  which  is  to  serve  in  turn  as  the  binding  rhyme 
of  the  next  tercet.1  We  are  told  that  Dante  chose  this 
verse-form  because  its  interlaced  triplets  symbolised  the 
trinity — three  in  one. 

The  verse  of  terza  rima  is  usually  written  solidly,  like 
our  blank  verse,  but  in  English  we  sometimes  see  the 
tercets  separated  into  little  stanzas.  There  is  an  old 
poem  of  Surrey's  in  this  measure.  In  modern  times 
Byron  has  used  it  for  his"  Prophecy  of  Dante,"  Shelley 
for  his  "  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,"  and  Browning  in 
"  The  Statue  and  the  Bust; "  the  last  two  poems  show- 
ing special  modifications. 

"  The  spirit  of  jthe  fei^ent  days^of  old,  «-- 

When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pass,  and  thought 
Flash'd  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold  c- 

Their  children's  children's  doom  already  brought  «•*""* 
Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be,  c-- 
The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half -wrought  -^- 

Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality  ;«£ 

What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 
That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me; 

And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed 
This  voice  from  out  the  Wilderness,  the  sin 

Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed," 

— BYRON  :  "  The  Prophecy  of  Dante,"  canto  ii. 

Shelley  has  divided  his  poem  into  stanzas  by  inter- 
polating at  the  end  of  every  twelve  lines  a  rhymed  coup- 
let. It  makes  a  very  noble  stanza. 

1  "  There  were  also  serventesi,  a  kind  of  satirical  poetry,  in  various  metres 
and  orders  of  rhyme,  so  incatenated  that  a  rhyme  of  the  preceding  tercet  or 
quatrain  is  brought  into  the  succeeding  one.  In  this  way  arose  the  ordinary 
terza  rima" — CHARLES  TOMLINSON  :  "  The  Sonnet,"  p.  16. 


I  So  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

11  Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 
Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 
Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 
Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth ; 
And  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse 
Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 
The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ?  " 

—SHELLEY  :  "  Ode  to  the  West  Wind." 

Browning  departs  from  the  rhythmic  and  metric  canons 
— the  typical  verse  being  heroic — and  uses  a  triple  meas- 
ure with  excellent  musical  effect. 

"  There's  a  palace  in  Florence  the  world  knows  well, 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

"  Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 
At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  east, 
Asked,  '  Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air  ?  ' 

"  The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased; 
She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand : 
They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased — 

"  They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  '  The  Great  Duke  Ferdinand.' 


METRIC  FORMS  181 

"  That  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine,  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

"  Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 
Till  he  threw  his  head  back — '  Who  is  she  ? ' 
'  A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day.'  ' 

— BROWNING  :  "  The  Statue  and  the  Bust." 

Ever  since  the  new  learning  in  the  early  Renaissance 
days  reached  England,  many  efforts  have  been  made  by 
many  scholars  and  poets  to  domesticate  the  Homeric 
dactylic  hexameter.  These  efforts  cannot  be  said  to 
have  been  crowned  by  signal  success. 

Classically  defined,   the  dactylic  hexameter  is  a  verse 

of  six  feet;  the  first  four  of  which  may  be  either  a  dactyl 

.     or   its  metrical   equivalent,   the  spondee;   the 

The  Homeric 

dactylic  fifth  must  be  a  dactyl,  and  the  sixth  a  spon- 
hexameter  ^e^  y^  caesurai  pause  comes  after  the 

thesis,  or  in  the  arsis,  of  the  third  foot.  According  to 
our  accentual  mensuration,  the  dactylic  hexameter  may 
be  defined  as  a  line  of  six  bars  of  3-beat  rhythm,  with 
the  direct  attack  and  the  feminine  ending.  Like  all 
long  lines,  it  tends  to  divide  itself  in  the  middle,  giving 
a  natural  pause  or  caesura  there.  Coleridge  exemplified 
it  thus: 

"  Strongly  it  bears  us  along  in  swelling  and  limitless  billows, 
Nothing  before  and  nothing  behind  but  the  sky  and  the  ocean." 

The  reason  assigned  by  many  metrists  for  the  un- 
adaptability  of  the  hexameter  to  English  verse  is  the 

1  For  the  definitions  of  dactyl  and  spondee,  I  must  refer  the  reader  to 
the  classical  prosodies,  as  it  is  quite  without  the  scope  of  this  work  to  enter 
into  these  details. 


1 82  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

scarcity  of  true  spondees  in  the  English  language ;  but 
the  cause  undoubtedly  lies  deeper.  In  becoming  an 
English  measure  it  ceases  to  be  quantitative  and  becomes 
accentual,  and  thus  its  organic  character  is  destroyed. 
Volume  of  sound  takes  the  place  of  measures  of  quan- 
tity, and  this  is  not  easy  to  preserve  in  purity  of  classic 
values  for  any  prolonged  period ;  so  that,  though  we 
have  plenty  of  short  flights  of  noble  character  in  this 
measure,  nothing  of  large  moment  exists  in  it.  Its  in- 
herent feebleness,  as  an  English  medium,  for  sustained 
action  is  well  illustrated  in  Longfellow's  "  Evangeline," 
whose  pathetic  theme  covers  a  multitude  of  metrical 
deficiencies.  The  British  ear  is,  however,  more  closely 
trained  to  classic  values  than  the  American.  Following 
is  a  spirited  passage  from  Kingsley. 

"  As  when  an  osprey  aloft,  dark-eyebrowed,  royally  crested, 

Flags  on  by  creek  and  by  cove,  and  in  scorn  of  the  anger  of 
Nereus 

Ranges,  the  king  of  the  shore;  if  he  see  on  a  glittering  shal- 
low, 

Chasing  the  bass  and  the  mullet,  the  fin  of  a  wallowing  dol- 
phin, 

Halting,  he  wheels  round  slowly,  in  doubt  at  the  weight  of 
his  quarry, 

Whether  to  clutch  it  alive,  or  to  fall  on  the  wretch  like  a 
plummet, 

Stunning  with  terrible  talon  the  life  of  the  brain  in  the  hind- 
head  : 

Then  rushes  up  with  a  scream,  and  stooping  the  wrath  of  his 
eyebrows, 

Falls  from  the  sky  like  a  star,  while  the  wind  rattles  hoarse  in 
his  pinions. 

Over  him  closes  the  foam  for  a  moment ;  then  from  the  sand- 
bed 


METRIC  FORMS  183 

Rolls  up  the  great  fish,  dead,  and  his  side  gleams  white  in  the 
sunshine. 

Thus  fell  the  boy  on  the  beast,  unveiling  the  face  of  the  Gor- 
gon." 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY  :  "Andromeda." 

Another  classical  form  frequently  imitated  in  English 
is  the  Ovidian  elegiac  distich.  This  consists  of  a  dactylic 
Theovidian  nexameter  followed  by  a  dactylic  pentameter, 
elegiac dis-  Allen  and  Greenough  define  the  pentameter 
as  the  same  as  the  hexameter,  omitting  the 
last  half  of  the  third  and  sixth  feet.  "  The  pentameter 
verse  is  thus  to  be  scanned  as  two  half-verses,  of  which 
the  latter  always  consists  of  two  dactyls  followed  by  a 
single  syllable." 

Coleridge  gives  us  this  English  exemplar  of  the  Ovid- 
ian elegiac  distich. 

i mipppimi r  D  iwifr  D  r  I 

"  In  the  hex-am-e-ter  rises  the  fountain's     silvery     column  : 

IP PDID  PDI  r  *imi  mi  r  * 

In  the  pen-tam-e-ter  aye  falling  in      melody     back." 

I  have  given  the  notation  of  this  to  demonstrate  that, 
measured  by  accents,  the  second  line  has  also  six  bars, 
and  not  five.  Half  a  bar  in  the  middle  of  a  moving 
phrase  is  a  rhythmic  impossibility;  all  the  time  is  there 
even  if  filled  by  a  rest  or  silence.  Here  is  a  melodious 
bit  in  this  measure. 

"  Grant,  O  regal  in  bounty,  a  subtle  anr1  delicate  largess; 
Grant  an  ethereal  alms,  out  of  the  wealth  of  thy  soul : 
Suffer  a  tarrying  minstrel,  who  finds,  not  fashions  his  numbers. 
Who,  from  the  commune  of  air,  cages  the  volatile  song, — 


1 84  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Here  to  capture  and  prison  some  fugitive  breath  of  thy  descant, 
Thine  and  his  own  as  thy  roar  lisped  on  the  lips  of  a  shell, 
Now  while  the  vernal  impulsion  makes  lyrical  all  that  hath 

language, 

While  through  the  veins  of  the  Earth,  riots  the  ichor  of  Spring, 
While,  with  throes,  with  raptures,  with  loosing  of  bonds,  with 

unsealings, — 

Arrowy  pangs  of  delight,  piercing  the  core  of  the  world, — 
Tremors  and  coy  unfoldings,  reluctances,  sweet  agitations,— 
Youth,  irrepressibly  fair,  wakes  like  a  wondering  rose." 

— WILLIAM  WATSON  :  "  Hymn  to  the  Sea." 

In  the  last  quarter  century  a  good  deal  of  attention  has 
been  paid  to  old  French  forms,  Austin  Dobson,  Edmund 
ow  French  Gosse,  and  others  having  made  essays  in  these 
verse-forms  fanciful  and  graceful  verse-forms.  Of  these, 
Mr.  Dobson's  are  undoubtedly  the  most  finished  and  have 
the  most  "go."  It  is  now  not  uncommon  in  our  cur- 
rent literature  to  run  across  a  Ballade,  a  Rondeau,  or  a 
Triolet ;  but  these  forms  cannot  yet  be  regarded  as  incor- 
porate in  our  literature,  and  therefore  I  do  not  give  them 
place  here.  The  reader  will  find  them  all — Rondeau, 
Rondel,  Triolet,  Villanelle,  Ballade,  Huitain,  Dixain,  and 
the  splendid  Chant  Royale — in  Austin  Dobson's  "  Vi- 
gnettes in  Rhyme."  They  are  one  and  all  conditioned 
by  intricate  rhyme-schemes,  and  upon  repetitions  and 
refrains, — each  stanza  carrying  exactly  the  same  melodic 
tones  as  every  other.  They  are  fascinating  to  write,  and 
are  very  exacting  metric  drill — the  man  who  is  quite 
master  of  the  Chant  Royale  need  never  baulk  at  any  metric 
form — but  it  is  evident  that  such  close  tone-schemes 
must  be  constrictive,  and,  while  being  a  good  field  for 
the  play  of  what  is  known  in  the  poetic  art  as  "  con- 
ceits," offer  none  at  all  for  the  development  of  real 
thought  or  passion. 


METRIC  FORMS  185 

The  student  should  experiment  in,  and  gain  mastery 
of,  all  forms,  but  permit  himself  to  become  enslaved  by 
none.  Thus  will  the  spirit,  playing  freely  in  every  key, 
always  find  for  the  special  inspiration  the  special  ex- 
pression. 

Setting  aside  blank  verse — which  is  a  genus  of  itself, 
and  will  be  treated  separately  in  the  next  chapter — un- 
withre  ard  rnvmed  verse  in  English  has  not,  as  a  rule, 
tounrhymed  proved  very  successful.  This  is  because,  if  we 
discard  the  great  fusing  and  unifying  element 
of  rhyme,  we  have  left  only  rhythm  to  guide  us  to  the 
verse-form — primary  rhythm,  or  motion  within  the  bar, 
and  the  larger  rhythm  of  metrical  division.  Without  the 
first  we  could  not  have  even  the  pretence  of  verse ;  but 
the  second  seems  of  equal  importance,  for  upon  the  nice 
adjustment  and  balance  of  the  caesural  effects  and  the 
natural  metric  pauses  or  end-stops  is  conditioned  the 
musical  swing,  not  only  of  the  whole  line,  but  of  the  whole 
stanza.  Therefore  upon  this  factor  it  depends  whether 
the  ear  shall  receive  an  impression  of  verse  at  all  or 
merely  of  dislocated  prose  periods.  I  give  herewith 
three  examples  of  unrhymed  verse  which  have  this  pro- 
nounced musical  swing,  and  which  therefore  seem  en- 
tirely satisfying  to  the  ear. 

"  Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you  ! 
There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you — 
Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it, 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

"  Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 


1 86  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel — borne,  see,  on  my  bosom  ! ' ' 

— BROWNING  :  "  One  Word  More." 

"  And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendour, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapours, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening." 

— LONGFELLOW:  "  Hiawatha's  Departure." 

"  Lo,  with  the  ancient 
Roots  of  man's  nature 
Twines  the  eternal 
Passion  of  song. 

"  Ever  Love  fans  it, 
Ever  Life  feeds  it ; 
Time  cannot  age  it, 
Death  cannot  slay. 

"  Deep  in  the  world-heart 
Stand  its  foundations, 
Tangled  with  all  things, 
Twin-made  with  all. 

"  Nay,  what  is  Nature's 
Self,  but  an  endless 
Strife  toward  music, 
Euphony,  rhyme  ? 

1  The  measure  of  Hiawatha  is  said  to  be   imitated   from  the   Finnish 

Kalevala. 


METRIC  FORMS  187 

"  Trees  in  their  blooming, 
Tides  in  their  flowing, 
Stars  in  their  circling, 
Tremble  with  song. 

"  God  on  His  throne  is 
Eldest  of  poets : 
Unto  His  measures 

Moveth  the  Whole." 
— WILLIAM  WATSON:  "  England,  My  Mother." 

These  extracts  were  selected  at  random,  without  any 
regard  to  their  correlation,  and  merely  because  they  pre- 
sent harmonious  and  proportioned  movement;  yet,  if  we 
study  them,  we  shall  find  that  they  possess  three  ele- 
ments in  common : 

1.  They  are  metrically  symmetrical;  that  is,  every  line 
is  the  length  of  every  other  line.     This  impresses  upon 
the  ear  at  the  outset  the  harmonious  movement  of  the 
larger  rhythms. 

2.  They   all   have   the   direct    attack,    which   we    have 
already   noted    (page   47)    as    a   potent   factor  of  verse- 
motion. 

3.  They  all  have  the  feminine  ending,  which  also  we 
have  observed  to  be  a  concomitant  of  motion  as  well  as 
of  melody.1     Thus  we  perceive  that  the  writers  of  these 
poems,     though    they    have     dispensed     with     melodic 
cadence-correspondence,    have,     consciously    or    uncon- 
sciously, availed  themselves  of  every  other  element  which 
could  unify  their  verse.     And  in  unrhymed  verse,  with- 
out this  metrical  symmetry  and  exactness,  this  melodious 
systole  and  diastole,  it  seems  to  me  we  cannot  have  verse 

1  The  third  extract  may  be  considered  equi-metric  notwithstanding  the 
masculine  ending  of  every  fourth  line.  This  merely  points  off  the  groups  or 
stanzas.  This  poem  has  the  added  movement  of  triple  rhythm. 


1 88  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

at  all.  For,  in  a  rhymed poem  which  is  metrically  irregu- 
lar, the  rhyme  gives  tonal  correspondence  and  cohesion ; 
but  an  unrhymed  poem,  which  is  metrically  irregular,  runs 
much  risk  of  being  metrical  chaos. 

In  these  latter  days  strange  things  find  their  way  into 
print  under  the  classification  of  poetry;  some  writers, 
who  value  sensation  above  art,  rushing  into  the  bizarre 
and  amorphous.  But  it  is  always  well  to  bear  in  mind 
that  no  idea,  however  beautiful,  or  however  true  and 
vital,  unless  it  conform  to  those  organic  laws  which 
govern  and  condition  the  musical  motion  of  verse,  can  of 
itself  and  by  itself  constitute  a  poem. 

Forms  are  not  fetters,  but  opportunities. 


CHAPTER   VI 

HEROICS 

THE  dividing  line  between  the  larger  forms  of  poetic 
art  and  the  smaller  is  the  personal  one.  By  this  they 
objective  are  made  to  fall  naturally  into  groups  of  the 
subjective  objective  or  subjective  order,  according  as  they 
poetry  are  either  the  record  of  observer  or  observed. 

In  lyric  verse  the  singer  is  himself  the  protagonist,  and 
it  is  his  personal  emotions  and  experiences  to  which  he 
is  giving  voice.  The  peculiarity  of  lyric  poets,  says  Pro- 
fessor Masson,  is  "  that  their  poems  are  vehicles  for  certain 
fixed  ideas  in  the  minds  of  the  authors,  outbursts  of  their 
personal  character,  impersonations,  under  shifting  guises, 
of  their  wishes,  feelings,  beliefs."  On  the  other  hand, 
in  the  epic  and  drama,  the  central  figure  is  sought  for 
outside  of  self;  and,  although  the  poet  so  flings  himself 
into  the  personality  of  his  creations  that  he  may  be  said 
to  feel  and  act  in  them,  and  for  the  nonce  to  be  one  or 
another  of  them,  in  the  larger  sense  he  remains  forever 
outside  of  them,  an  impersonal  observer  of  characters 
and  events.  Personality  melts  into  imagination.  To 
quote  again  from  Masson,  the  objective  poets  "  fashion 
their  creations  by  a  kind  of  inventive  craft,  working  amid 
materials  supplied  by  sense,  memory  and  reading,  with- 
out any  distinct  infusion  of  personal  feeling." 

Thus  it  comes  about  that  the  suitable  media  for  ex- 
pression also  differentiate  themselves ;  those  which  most 
fittingly  express  the  personal  emotion  are  not  suited  to 


190  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF    VERSE 

the  impersonal;  and  vice-versa.  In  brief,  lyric  verse  is 
song,  pure  and  simple,  and  demands  singable  and  motive 
forms ;  while  the  epic  and  the  drama  are  recitatives  and 
demand  a  verse-form  fitted  to  the  long-sustained  chords 
of  action. 

The  lyric,  though  probably  not  so  old  as  the  epic — 

because  the  impulse  of  savage  man  to  celebrate  his  heroes 

would   fore-run   his  self-conscious  impulse  to 

The  lyric  , ,  .  ,-,-,       . 

express  himself — is  very  ancient.  We  have 
noted  (page  3)  how  "  lyrical  poetry,  like  all  art  in  Greece, 
took  its  origin  in  connection  with  nature  worship;"  and 
from  "  the  Jiolian  lyrists,  with  Sappho  at  their  head,  and 
the  so-called  Dorian  lyrists,  who  culminate  in  Pindar,"  to 
our  own  day,  it  has  remained  the  favourite  form  for  man's 
intimate  expression. 

Lyric  poetry  has  practically  no  metrical  limitations, 
and  may  employ  any  and  all  poetic  forms.  Objective 
Forms  poetry  is  obviously  limited  to  the  very  few 

objective  forms  which  are  large  enough  to  embody  its 
poetry  prolonged  action  without  wearying  the  ear. 

Such  forms  are  the  Greek  dactylic  hexameter,  the  mod- 
ern heroic  blank  verse,  or,  very  occasionally,  the  same 
stately  iambic  employed  in  a  full,  rhymed  stanza,  as  in 
the  "  Faerie  Queene." 

The  foregoing  chapters  have  been  mainly  concerned 
with  lyric  forms;  in  this  chapter  we  shall  consider  the 
larger  medium  of  objective  verse. 

Objective  art  groups  itself  naturally  into  two  general 
divisions;  viz. :  (i)  the  epic,1  with  its  cognate  miniatures, 
Divisions  of  *n  which  the  story  of  the  personages  concerned 
objective  is  told  or  narrated;  and  (2)  the  drama,  with  its 
cognate  miniatures,  in  which  the  story  tells 
//^//"through  the  speech  and  action  of  the  personages 

1  Greek  :  Epikos,  from  epos,  word. 


HEROICS  IQI 

concerned.     Aristotle's  definition   of  drama  is  imitated 
action. 

The  smaller  forms  of  the  epic  are: 

1.  The  Metrical  Romance,  such  as  most  of  Scott's  and 
many  of  Byron's  poems,  Keats's  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes" 

and"  Lamia,"  Browning's"  Ivan  Ivanovitch," 
"  Donald,"  etc.     The  Metrical   Romance,  by 
far   the  largest  class   in   imaginative  poetry,   was  intro- 
duced into  English  literature  by  Chaucer  with  his  "  Can- 
terbury Tales." 

2.  The  Idyll.  *  The  Idyll  is  epical  in  character,  in  that  it 
is  large  and  simple,  but,  as  its  name  indicates,  it  should 
be  tranquil,  and  be  less  a  matter  of  action  than  of  situa- 
tion and  sentiment.     Under  this  head  we  may  consider 
Arnold's"  Balder  Dead;"   Wordsworth's  "  Laodamia;" 
Tennyson's      'Ulysses"     and     "^Enone;"     Landor's 

'  Dryope,"  "  Cupid  and  Pan,"  "  Chrysaor,"  etc.  Such 
poems  as  Burns's  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  are  also 
classed  as  Idylls,  though  they  are  strictly  speaking 
merely  Pastorals.  The  Pastoral  Poem  might  be  called 
a  small  Idyll.  Tennyson's  "  Idylls  of  the  King  "  are  not 
really  Idylls,  as  they  deal  with  action  and  approach  too 
near  the  true  epic. 

3.  The  Ballad.     The  Ballad  has  already  been  treated 
in  the  preceding  chapter.     It  partakes  of  the  nature  of 
the  lyric,  in   that,   though  objective  in  substance,   it  is 
lyrical  in  external  character. 

The  epic  takes  its  dawn  beyond  the  horizon  of  civilisa- 
tion. Barbaric  peoples,  desirous  of  celebrating  the  ex- 
originof  ploits  of  their  heroes,  or  the  attributes  of  their 
the  epic  deities,  or  both  mythically  interwoven,  would 
naturally  break  into  rude  song,  more  or  less  vocal,  and 
rendered  rhythmic  by  the  length  of  a  suspiration,  or  the 
rough  steps  of  an  accompanying  dance.  Such  celebra- 


192  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

tions  we  may  observe  to-day  in  the  song-dances  of  our 
own  North  American  Indian  tribes.  These  songs  would 
be  at  first  largely  ejaculatory,  but,  as  the  scope  of  human 
speech  widened,  they  would  become  rhetorically  fuller 
and  more  rounded.  By  and  by  as  man  became  more 
civilised  and  settled,  we  can  see  that  these  recitals  would 
cease  to  be  chanted  by  the  whole  people,  and  would  be 
relegated  to  specialists,  whose  trained  memories  could 
retain  the  prodigious 'chronicles,  and  whose  function  it 
would  be  to  polish  and  reduce  them  to  an  artistic — 
natively  artistic — homogeneity.  Hence  the  minstrel,  or 
poet-singer.  The  next  step  in  development  would  be 
the  reduction  of  these  recitatives  to  writing,  by  which 
they  would  take  on  fixity  of  form  and  become  literature. 

From  the  first  self^consciousnessof  literature  on,  we  have 
plenty  of  epics ;  they,  however,  are  no  longer  endogenous, 
The  literary  but  exogenous;  not  an  internal,  but  an  external, 
epic  growth.  The  material  is  no  longer  organic, 

evolved  with  the  development  of  the  people,  but  is 
selected  and  arranged  and  expressed  by  a  single  mind. 
The  literary  epic  may  therefore  be  called  a  composition. 
An  early  example  of  a  composition  is  Virgil's"  yEneid," 
which,  though  attempting  to  follow  the  great  Greek 
models,  cannot  attain  to  their  heroic  spontaneity. 

The  earliest  as  well  as  the  noblest  epics  which  have 
come  down  to  us  are  the  "  Iliad  "  and  the  "  Odyssey," 
Earliest  attributed  to  Homer.  We  have  other  exam- 
epics  p|es  jn  t|ie  great  Norse  "  Sagas,"  1  and  in  the 
early  Anglo-Saxon  (heathen)  poem  of  "  Beowulf." 

With  the  Christian  era  a  new  element  is  introduced 
Christian  into  epic  poetry,  viz.:  the  spiritual.  It  is  no 
epics  longer  brute  force  which  is  to  be  celebrated  and 

extolled,  but  that  something  in  man,  larger  and  finer, 

1  Saga — something  said. 


HEROICS  193 

which  impels  him  to  shed  the  material  and  to  press  for- 
ward to  ever  higher  and  higher  ideals.  In  his  "  Divina 
Commedia  "  Dante  opened  the  new  literary  era  with  the 
grandest  music  to  which  the  world  has  ever  listened. 
The  "  Divina  Commedia"  is  also  called  a  Didactic  Alle- 
gory. One  may  ask,  since  its  motive  is  profoundly  sub- 
jective, why  this  poem  takes  the  rank  of  the  epic.  It 
takes  rank  as  an  epic  because  of  its  construction,  because 
of  the  largeness  of  its  scope,  and  because,  notwith- 
standing the  underlying  subjectivity,  its  expression  is 
objective,  unrolling  before  us  a  panorama  of  vivid  con- 
crete pictures. 

James  Russell  Lowell  says  of  Dante,  "  He  would  not 
have  been  the  great  poet  he  was  if  he  had  not  felt  in- 
tensely and  humanly,  but  he  could  never  have  won  the 
cosmopolitan  place  he  holds  had  he  not  known  how  to 
generalise  his  special  experience." 

English  literature  is  rich  in  epics.  To  name  only 
a  few:  Layamon's  "Brut"  (eleventh  century);  Lang- 
English  land's  "  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman"  (four- 
epics  teenth  century);  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene  " 
(also  Allegories);  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost;"  Keats's 
splendid  fragment,  "  Hyperion;"  and,  in  our  own  day, 
Tennyson's  "  Idylls  of  the  King,"  now  called  "  The 
Arthuriad."  While,  taken  separately,  the  "  Idylls"  are 
not  individually  large  enough  to  stand  as  epics,  together, 
and  as  a  whole,  they  make  a  most  noble  epic  setting  of 
these  immortal  Celtic  legends. 

There  is  a  large  class  of  poems  which,  though  epical  in 
scope  and  treatment,  are  wanting  in  the  action  and  move- 
Pastorai  ment  of  the  true  epic.  Of  such  are  Words- 
epics  worth's  "  Excursion,"  Goldsmith's  "  Travel- 
ler "  and  "Deserted  Village,"  Thomson's  "Seasons," 
etc.  These  are  known  as  Pastoral  Epics. 
13 


194  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

The  union  of  largeness  of  conception  with  simplicity 
in  execution  is  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the 
character  of  epic.  There  is  usually  a  central  figure  round 
the  epic  which  the  general  movement  groups  itself. 
Such  are  Achilles  in  the  "  Iliad,"  Ulysses  in  the  "  Odys- 
sey," Fridthjof  in  the  "Fridthjof  Saga,"  Sigurd  in  the 
"  Volsung  "  legends,  Beowulf  in  "Beowulf,"  etc.  In  the 
Christian  epics,  Dante  himself  is  the  heroic  figure  of 
the  "  Divina  Commedia;"  Satan,  of  "  Paradise  Lost;" 
Arthur,  of  the  "  Idylls  of  the  King." 

The  epic  is  discursive,  and  abounds  with  episodes,  or 
interpolated  narratives  of  events  not  closely  related  to 
the  main  theme.  Dialogue  is  a  great  feature  of  the  epic, 
and  gives  life  to  the  canvas,  but  its  dialogue  is  discursive 
and  expansive,  and  not  the  concentrated  utterance  of  the 
drama.  It  is  not  so  much  the  action  or  character  of 
special  personages  as  the  impression  of  the  whole  which 
is  of  importance  in  the  epic. 

The  epic  is  sculptured  upon  heroic  lines — large,  simple, 
severe — like  a  colossal  statue  which  is  designed  to  pro- 
duce its  effect  by  massiveness  of  outline  rather  than  by 
delicacy  of  detail.  In  its  largeness  of  form  and  tonic 
austerity  of  movement,  it  may  be  likened  to  the  symphony 
in  music,  each  representing  in  its  own  department  of  art 
the  loftiest  sustained  effort  of  which  the  composer  is 
capable;  for  the  epic  poet  is  the  "  poet  of  life,  sublimity, 
action." 

The  one  feature  which  modern  drama  has  in  common 
with  ancient  is  that  both  had  their  origin  in  religious 
Origin  of  the  ceremonial.  Such  mimetic  art  as  India  and 
Egypt  possessed  was  centred  about  the  mys- 
teries of  their  worship.  In  Greece,  as  we  have  already 
noted  (page  3),  "  the  Bacchic  songs  of  alternating  mirth 


HEROICS  195 

and  sadness  gave  birth  through  the  dithyramb  to  trag- 
edy, and  through  the  Comus-hymn  to  comedy."  "  In 
the  religious  life  of  Egyptians,  Indians,  Chinese,  and 
Greeks,  the  deepest  conceptions  of  death  in  life  and  life 
in  death  veiled  themselves  under  dramatic  forms  which 
were  at  once  jealously  guarded  from  contact  with  the 
multitude,  and  remained  to  it  objects  of  unutterable  rev- 
erence. Wherever  in  religious  rites  a  dramatic  element 
asserted  itself — as  in  the  worship  of  Osiris,  of  Buddha, 
of  Dionysus, — it  sprang  from  an  endeavour  to  symbolise 
in  mysterious  forms  conflict  and  solution,  passion  and 
expiatory  action."  1 

Christian  dramatic  art  also  had  its  beginning  in  the 
church,  and  primarily  strove  to  present  to  the  vulgar  an 
Earl  idea  of  the  divine  mysteries  for  which  the  sym- 

christian  bolised  worship  stood.  But  in  form  nothing 
could  be  farther  from  the  classical  standards. 
Greek  art — severe,  one  might  even  say  sculpturesque,  and 
single  in  idea — did  not  serve  as  model  for  the  mediaeval 
Mysteries  or  Miracle-plays,  which,  like  the  lyric  poetry  of 
the  same  epoch,  developed  waywardly,  in  consonance 
with  the  racial  feeling  of  the  new  civilisations. 

The  first  distinct  dramatic  representations  of  the  Chris- 
tian world  are  to  be  found  in  the  Mysteries  and  Miracle- 
plays,  common  in  the  middle  ages,  which  consisted  of 
portions  of  scripture,  or  sacred  legends,  loosely  hung 
together  and  often  strangely  assorted.  At  first  exclu- 
sively an  ecclesiastical  prerogative,  these  came  afterwards 
into  the  hands  of  purely  secular  performers.  A  rare 
instance  of  the  survival  of  this  mediaeval  form  is  found  in 
the  famous  "  Passion  Play"  of  Oberammergau,  in  the 
Tyrol,  performed  at  intervals  down  to  our  own  time. 

1  A.  W.  WARD:  "  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,"  Intro- 
duction. 


196  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

But  there  were  certain  connecting  links  with  ancient 
art.  Classical  traditions  and  classical  volumes  lingered 
Previousto  in  odd  monastic  corners,  and  were  browsed 
Congest*"  uPon  ^7  occasional  inquiring  minds.  There 
impulse  exist  crude  essays  in  dramatic  form  and  with 
forma?  Latin  text,  always  of  a  theological  character, 

drama  and  probably  never  seen  outside  the  walls  of 

the  cloisters.  Conspicuous  among  such  were  the  works 
of  Hroswitha,  the  Benedictine  nun  of  Gandersheim,  who 
modelled  herself  in  form  upon  Terence,  endeavouring  to 
adapt  this  to  the  requirements  of  Christian  theology.  In 
England  the  development  of  dramatic  entertainments, 
though  not  beginning  until  the  Norman  conquest,  was 
cognate  and  coeval  with  that  of  the  continent.  Previous 
to  the  conquest  there  seems  to  have  been  no  impulse 
towards  dramatic  form;1  this  came  in,  with  other  con- 
tinental culture,  with  the  Normans.  '  French  ecclesias- 
tics, who  filled  the  English  monasteries,  brought  with 
them  the  literary  tendency  of  the  times.  Thus  it  would 
be  in  accordance  with  probability  that  Latin  religious 
dramas,  treating  of  the  legends  of  the  saints,  should' 
have  been  performed  in  the  English  monasteries  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  eleventh  century,  as  they  had  been  per- 
formed at  Quedlinburg,  and  perhaps  at  Gandersheim. 
And  as  these  performances  would  be  in  the  first  instance 
treated  as  part  of  the  education  of  the  children  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  the  religious  foundations,  the 
legends  of  the  patron-saints  of  boys  and  girls,  St.  Nich- 
olas and  St.  Catharine,  would  be  expected  to  have  been 
treated  with  especial  predilection."2 

1  Because,  as  Professor  Ward  has  well  pointed  out,  mere  dialogue,  with- 
out implied  action,  has  none  of  the  elements  of  drama.      If  it  had,  Isaac 
Walton's  "  Compleat  Angler"  could  be  regarded  as  a  drama. 

2  WARD  :   "  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,"  chap.  i. 


HEROICS  197 

The  elementary  stages  of  English  dramatic  art  are  not 
difficult  to  trace.  It  seems  to  have  been  early  the  cus- 
Eariy  torn  to  add  to  the  ceremonial  of  church  func- 

church  tions  on  special  occasions  tableaux  represent- 

mimetic  r 

ceremonials  ing  biblical  subjects.  Some  mimetic  elements 
would  next  creep  in,  then  the  vernacular  would  be  sub- 
stituted for  the  Latin  texts ;  and  we  are  well  on  the  way 
towards  elementary  drama.  The  joining  together  of  a 
number  of  Mysteries  into  a  collective  Mystery  is  another 
long  step  in  the  line  of  dramatic  construction. 

"  '  The  Ludus  de  S.  Katherina,'  the  earliest  religious 
play  of  which  we  have  nominal  mention,  and  which  the 
Norman  Geoffrey  (afterwards  Abbot  of  St.  Albans)  caused 
to  be  represented  about  the  year  1 1 10,  is  usually  sup- 
posed to  have  been  written  in  French.  The  supposition, 
however,  is  not  proved."  1 

There  appear  to  have  been  Miracle-plays2  in  London 
in  1170-1182,  but  it  is  not  known  in  what  language  they 
First  miracle- were  written;  probably  Latin.  Professional 
PIfly8  players  are  heard  of  in  1258.  From  this  time 

on  the  Miracle-plays  multiplied  and  came  eventually 
to  be  performed  in  great  numbers  in  centres  like 
Chester,  Coventry,  York,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  Leeds, 
Lancaster,  Preston,  Kendal,  Wymondham,  Dublin,  and 
London. 

Three  series  of  English  Collective  Mysteries  have  come 
down  to  us :  the  Towneley,  the  Chester,  and  the  Coven- 
try collections.  The  Coventry  plays  have  more  literary 
form  than  the  others,  for  which  reason  it  is  supposed 
that  they  were  written  by  the  clergy,  while  the  Chester 

1  WARD  :   "  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,"  chap.  i. 

2  Strictly  speaking,  the  Mystery  deals  with   purely  scriptural  subjects, 
and  the  Miracle-plays  with  legends  of  the  saints  ;  but  the  two  were  a  good 
deal  mixed,  and  in  England  the  term  Mystery  (a.  corruption  of  ministeriuni) 
seems  never  to  have  been  used  at  all. 


198  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

plays,  being  more  popular  in  style,  probably  came  from 
secular  sources. 

Each  separate  play  was  called  a  pageant  and  began 
upon  a  Sunday  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Rogers 
(about  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century)  says  of  the 
Chester  plays,  "  Every  company  had  his  pageant,  which 
pageants  were  a  high  scaffold  with  two  rooms,  a  higher 
and  a  lower,  upon  four  wheels.  In  the  lower  they  appar- 
elled themselves,  and  in  the  higher  room  they  played, 
being  all  open  on  the  top  that  all  beholders  might  see 
and  hear  them.  The  places  where  they  played  them  was 
in  every  street.  They  began  first  at  the  Abbey  gates, 
and  when  the  first  pageant  was  played,  it  was  wheeled 
to  the  high  cross  before  the  Mayor,  and  so  to  every 
street." 

But  the  public  temper  demanding  a  more  humanised 
element  in  its  mimetic  art — something  nearer  to  every- 
Evoiutionof  day  life — there  was  developed  the  Morality, 
the  morality  wherein  merely  ethical  subjects  supersede  the 
sacred.  Human  virtues,  vices,  attributes  of  all  sorts, 
are  herein  personified,  and  act  out  their  artificial,  often 
grotesque,  parts;  yet  from  the  nature  of  it  the  Morality 
was  more  dramatically  coherent  than  anything  which 
preceded  it.  In  the  Morality  also  we  trace  the  rudi- 
ments of  character  drawing. 

With  the  increase  of  learning  and  the  consequently 
heightened  literary  taste,  the  Morality,  as  well  as  the 
into  the  Miracle-play,  ceased  to  satisfy;  and  the  next 
interlude  dramatic  evolution  is  into  the  Interlude  The 
Interlude  was  light  in  character  and,  as  its  name  indi- 
cates, served  to  fill  the  intervals  at  feasts  and  other  en- 
tertainments. It  was  the  progenitor  of  comedy  proper. 
The  most  notable  early  Interludes  are  by  John  Hey- 
wood.  Good  examples  of  the  Interlude  may  be  seen 


HEROICS  199 

in  "  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,"  "  Love's  Labour's 
Lost,"  and  the  "Tempest,"  though  the  latter  might 
better  come  under  the  head  of  the  Mask.  The  more 
elaborate  Interludes  were  called  Masks,  and  were  popu- 
lar throughout  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  having  been  intro- 
duced from  Italy,  where  they  were  known  as  "  masked 
dramas."  They  were  usually  pastoral  in  character  and 
interspersed  with  dancing.  Ben  Jonson  wrote  many 
elaborate  Masks,  the  most  famous  of  them  being  "Cyn- 
thia's Revels."  The  greatest  English  Mask  is,  however, 
Milton's  "  Comus." 

The     Miracle-play,    the    Morality — the     Morality    sur- 
vived till  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  c.entury — and  the  In- 
terlude continued  in   a  manner  side   by  side 

Differentia-  ..      .,  1111-. 

tionof  until  all  were  superseded  by  legitimate  drama. 

tragedyand  it  was  during  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  that 
tragedy  and  comedy,1  which  had  heretofore 
been  strangely  jumbled,  became,  through  the  influence  of 
classical  study  and  of  Italian  dramatic  models,  differenti- 
ated into  their  respective  fields  and  forms,  comedy  seem- 
ing to  have  taken  shape  before  tragedy.  The  earliest 
original  English  comedy  is  "Ralph  Roister  Doister " 
(1551  or  earlier);  and  "Gammer  Gurton's  Needle" 
(printed  in  1575)  is  generally  regarded  as  chronologically 
the  next. 

1  Greek  Komodia,  from  Komos,  revel  +  ode.  Tragedy  is  derived  from  the 
Greek  Tragodia,  this  word  having  its  origin  in  Tragos,  a  goat,  from  the 
fact  that  originally  tragic  singers  were  dressed  in  goat-skins  to  represent 
Satyrs. 

"  According  to  Aristotle,  that  which  distinguishes  tragedy  as  a  dramatic 
species  is  the  importance  and  magnitude  of  its  subject,  the  adequate  eleva- 
tion of  its  literary  form,  and  the  power  of  the  emotions — pity  or  terror — 
by  means  of  which  it  produces  its  effects.  Comedy,  on  the  other  hand, 
imitates  actions  of  inferior  interest  ('  neither  painful  nor  destructive '),  and 
carried  on  by  characters  whose  vices  are  of  a  ridiculous  kind." — WARD  : 
"  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,"  chap,  ii. 


200  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF    VERSE 

Comedy  has  tended  to  prose,  therefore  it  is  generally 
in  the  great  tragedies  that  we  must  look  for  the  highest 
achievements  of  dramatic  verse. 

The  first  English  tragedy  proper  of  which  we  have  rec- 
ord is  "  Gorboduc  " — also  called  "  Ferrex  and  Porrex  " 
— from  the  hands  of  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord 

The  first 

English  Buckhurst  (I56/).1  This  play,  although  the 
first  legitimate  English  drama,  "  moves  with- 
out ease  or  variation,"  and  is  full  of  "  moral  reflections 
of  excessive  length."  It  is  the  first  drama  in  blank 
verse,  Surrey's  "^Eneid"  having  preceded  it  by  fifteen 
years. 

But  it  was  the  fiery  genius  of  Marlowe  which,  with  its 
'  Tamburlaine  the  Great,"  ushered  in  the  splendid  drama 
of  the  golden  age  of  Elizabeth ;  and,  though  he  did  not 
reach  the  stature  of  Shakespeare,  nor  the  technical  finish 
even  of  a  number  of  others,  he  must  be  reckoned  as  the 
first  of  the  Titans  of  English  dramatic  literature. 

A   mighty  decadence    follows   the   great    Elizabethan 

music.     Inspiration    faded    and    artifice    took    its  place; 

until   at   last   all   art   became   obscured   in  the 

Decadence 

Puritan  twilight.  And  we  find  the  revived 
drama  of  the  Restoration  meretricious  both  in  matter 
and  manner. 

In  the  nineteenth  century,  literature  and  the  stage 
would  seem  to  have  become  entirely  divorced ;  but  there 
are  hopeful  signs  to-day  of  a  change  in  this  respect.2 

The  two  axes  upon  which  the  spirit  of  drama  moves 
are  action  and  character;  character  prompting  action, 
and  action  organically  elucidating  character.  The  great- 

1  The  first  three  acts  are  said  to  have  been  written  by  Thomas  Norton, 
the  last  two  by  Sackville. 

2  The  reader  will  bear  in  mind  that  this  book  concerns  itself  exclusively 
with  English  drama.      In  France  the  literary  drama  has  always  obtained  ; 
as,  largely,  in  other  countries  of  Europe. 


HEROICS  201 

ness  of   Shakespeare   is  in   nothing  more  demonstrated 

than  in  his  power    of    drawing  a  character  and  making 

it  act  itself.     Furthermore  true  drama  is  po- 

principles  ••• 

of  the  tentially  human,  stirring  the  chords  of  laughter 

or  tears,  love,  pity,  or  terror,  to  which  men's 
passions  vibrate  the  world  over;  and  only  in  proportion 
as  it  is  human  can  it  be  intrinsic  or  great.  It  is  of  no 
consequence  to  us  that  Rosalind  is  assumedly  a  French- 
woman, Portia  a  Venetian,  Hamlet  a  Dane,  Othello 
a  Moor,  etc.,  because  these,  in  their  large  delineations, 
are  not  particular  types  but  cosmopolitan  types,  play- 
ing out  universal  life-dramas  upon  a  universal  stage. 
Characterisation  is  a  development  of  modern  drama,  and 
is  one  of  the  salient  features  which  distinguish  it  from 
ancient  art. 

In  the  ancient  drama — simple,  direct,  austere — the 
persons  seem  to  be  rather  the  sport  of  an  inexorable 
comparison  destiny,  and  the  action  moves  upon  inevitable 

with^rdem  lines-  In  the  modern  drama  the  dramatis per- 
drama  soucs  mould  their  own  d,estinies,  and  give  us 

many  surprises.  '  The  motive  of  ancient  drama,"  says 
Lowell,  "  is  generally  outside  of  it,  while  in  the  modern 
it  is  within." 

Underplots,  which  only  crept  into  classic  literature  in 
its  decadence,  form  the  very  woof  of  modern  drama.  The 
latter  borrowed  from  the  Romans  the  system  of  dividing 
a  play  into  five  sections,  or  acts,  but  has  beautifully  dis- 
regarded the  traditions  of  the  Greek  unities  of  time, 
place,  and  action,  moving  upon  lines  of  its  own. 

Modern  drama  is  far  more  complex  than  the  ancient, 
and  introduces  not  only  more  personages  but  more 
motives.  Naturally  this  admits  of  much  subjectivity; 
but  the  objective  side  of  the  art  must  ever  dominate, 
else  will  the  art  as  art  suffer  deterioration.  We  call 


202  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

"  Hamlet "  a  subjective  drama,  and  so  are  all  of  Ibsen's 
plays  subjective  dramas;  but,  with  all  their  power,  no 
one  could  think  of  comparing  the  latter  with  the  great 
Shakespearean  play,  for  the  simple  reason  that,  in  "  Ham- 
let," the  perfect  objective  dominance,  the  high  artistic 
poise — which  was  indeed  in  the  very  air  the  Eliza- 
bethans breathed — lifts  it  far  above  the  atmospheric 
stratum  in  which  modern  realism  moves. 

Drama  has  its  miniatures  in  the  one-act  play;  in 
poetic  literature,  in  the  scena  and  gran  scena,  for  which 
Dramatic  Aldrich's  lovely  "Pauline  Paulovna "  and 
miniatures  Browning's  "In  a  Balcony"  may  stand  as 
types.  Certain  other  poems,  semi-dramatic  in  form  but 
lyrical  in  movement — such  as  Arnold's  "  Empedocles 
on  ^Etna  "  and  Browning's  "  In  a  Gondola" — we  may 
class  as  dramatic  lyrics.  Shelley's  "  Prometheus  Un- 
bound "  is  called  a  lyrical  drama;  and  there  are  other 
works  which  defy  classification,  such  as  Browning's 
"  Pippa  Passes  "  and  "  Paracelsus,"  the  latter  being  de- 
fined by  Miss  Scudder  as  "  drama  moving  toward  mono- 
logue." 

There  was  a  form  of  Dramatic  Idyll,  imitated  from  the 
Italian,1  and  called  Pastoral  Drama,  which  had  vogue  in 
Elizabeth's  time,  but  which  has  long  gone  by.  Fletcher's 
"  Faithful  Shepherdess"  and  Ben  Jonson's  "  Sad  Shep- 
herd "  are  examples.  Spenser's  "  Shepherd's  Calendar  " 
is  slighter  and  belongs  rather  to  the  department  of  the 
Eclogue. 

Imitations  of  pure  Greek  drama  are  found  in  Swin- 
burne's "  Atalanta  in  Caledon  "  and  "  Erechtheus,"  and 

1  The  Pastoral  Drama,  which  was,  in  other  words,  the  bucolic  idyll  in 
dramatic  form,  and  freely  lent  itself  to  the  introduction  both  of  mythological 
and  allegorical  elements,  flourished  in  Italy  at  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. Its  origin  was  purely  literary. 


HEROICS  203 

in  Milton's  "  Samson  Agonistes,"   the  latter  a  master- 
piece well  comparable  to  its  models. 

With  this  necessarily  brief  survey  of  the  field  of  objec- 
tive art  we  shall  have  to  pause  and  transfer  our  attention 
to  the  medium  employed  for  its  expression. 

It  is  obvious  that  any  long-sustained  theme,  such  as 

we  find  in  objective  art,  would  demand  for  its  expression 

some  medium  whose  motion  could  be  indefi- 

Ine 

five-foot  nitely  prolonged,  and  whose  periods  could  be 
indefinitely  varied,  so  as  to  charm  and  not 
weary  the  ear.  Such  a  medium  was  early  found  in  Euro- 
pean verse  in  the  so-called  five-foot  iambic.  Stanzaic 
verse  of  any  kind  is  unsuited  to  long-sustained  themes 
because  the  exigencies  of  the  rhyme  and 'the  greater 
metric  uniformity  and  exactness  make  prolonged  stanzaic 
movements  cloying  or  wearisome  to  the  ear.  There  have 
been  a  few  successful  exceptions,  such  as  Chapman's 
Homer,  whose  strong,  rugged  numbers  catch  Homeric 
echoes;  and  Spenser's"  Faerie  Queene,"  which  endures, 
not  because  it  is  best  adapted  to  epic  art,  but  by 
virtue  of  its  wonderful  music.  We  have  only  to  place 
beside  the  latter  "  Paradise  Lost"  to  recognise  the  im- 
mensely greater  power  and  virility  of  blank  verse.  It  is 
indeed  not  a  little  due  to  the  selection  of  blank  verse  as 
a  medium — a  process  of  natural  selection,  since  it  was 
not  easily  adopted,  and  only  made  its  way  as  its  superior 
fitness  manifested  itself — that  English  poetic  art  has 
established  its  preeminence. 

The  iambic  measure  seems  to  have  been  evolved  by 
the  Greeks  quite  as  early  as  the  dactylic,  but  it  was  not 
considered  by  them  of  sufficient  dignity  for  a  heroic 
medium,  and  was  relegated  to  the  expression  of  satire. 
The  Latins  used  it  imitatively;  but,  with  all  elements  of 


204  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

classic  culture,  it  became  obscured  in  the  mists  of  mediae  - 
valism.  When  it  emerges  again  to  view  in  the  literature 
of  the  early  Italian  Renaissance,  it  is  seen  to  be  a  very 
different  medium  from  the  classic  form.  Quantity  no 
longer  dictates.  It  is  dominated  solely  by  the  nascent 
musical  ear  of  the  new  culture,  and  measures  its  numbers 
by  the  recurrent  and  interconsistent  accent.  In  the  pol- 
ished verse  of  Dante  and  Petrarch  it  becomes  a  wonder- 
fully elastic  medium — is  indeed  often  so  loosely  hung  as 
almost  to  seem  dithyrambic;  yet  are  the  musical  unities 
ever  preserved.  For  so  fluent  is  the  limpid  Tuscan 
tongue,  with  such  a  superabundance  of  warm  vowel  tones 
and  the  ever-inherent  tendency  of  the  southern  larynx 
to  soften  consonants,  that  it  permits  marvellous  elisional 
effects,  the  measures  seeming  to  melt  one  over  the  other, 
as  it  were,  in  waves  of  harmoniously  modulated  sound. 

Of  the  modern  five-foot  iambic,  Professor  Mayor,  quot- 
ing Zarncke,  says:  "  We  have  no  ground  for  tracing  the 
metre  back  either  to  the  Greek  five-foot  iambic 

Modern 

five-foot  or  five-foot  trochaic  with  anacrusis,  nor  to  the 
Latin  hendecasyllabic,  which  is  quite  opposed 
to  it  in  rhythm.  We  can  say  no  more  of  it  than  that 
it  was  in  all  probability  the  ordinary  metre  of  the 
Romance  epic 1  and  spread  from  France  into  other  coun- 
tries. .  .  .  This  will  give  an  idea:  • 

"  '  Enfants  en  dies  for£n  om£  fel!6 
Qu'el  era  corns  molt  onraz  e  rix 
Nos  jove  omne  quandiiis  que  nos  estam 
Donz  fo  Bo6cis  corps  ag  bo  e  pro.'  2 

1  Whence  did  the  Romance  poets  evolve  it  ?     It  is  more  likely  that  they 
had  an  idea  of  the  classic  form  enfeebled  by  the  attrition  of  the  Middle-Age 
ignorance,  but  uttered  it  in  their  own  way  with  the  dawn  of  a  new  music  in 
their  souls.     See  page  21. 

2  The  reason  for  omitting  the  scansion  ttiarks  in  the  originals  of  these 
quotations  will  be  obvious. 


HEROICS  205 

"  In  the  '  Alexius  '  and*  Song  of  Roland/  dating  from 
the  eleventh  century,  we  meet  with  examples  of  fem- 
inine ending,  as — 

""*  Faites  la  guerre  cum  vos  Pavez  emprise,' 

.  .  .  '  From  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury the  five-foot  verse  gave  place  to  the  four-foot  and 
the  six-foot  (Alexandrine),  but  was  still  retained  for 
lyric  poetry,  undergoing  however  two  changes:  (i)  the 
caesura,  which  occurs  regularly  after  the  fourth  syllable, 
was  treated  simply  as  a  metrical,  not  a  logical  pause; 
(2)  the  preceding  accent  was  often  thrown  back  or  in- 
verted, making  the  second  foot  a  trochee,  as : 

"  '  Bona  domna  per  cui  plane  e  sospir ' 

Later  on   all    the   accents    except   the   last 
became  liable  to  inversion,  as : 

"  '  Bel  ha  domna  valham  vostra  va!6rs,' 

.  .  .  "From  1500  the  feminine  caesura  disappears 
altogether,  owing  to  the  growing  weakness  of  the  final  e. 
The  more  regular  form  of  the  five-foot  iambic  became 
known  as  vers  commun,  and  was  employed  by  Ronsard 
for  epic  and  by  Jodelle  for  tragedy.  By  the  end  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  however,  there  was  a  reaction  in  favor 
of  the  Alexandrine,  the  stiff  monotony  of  the  rhyming 
five-foot,  with  its  fixed  pauses  after  the  fourth  and  tenth 
syllables,  being  felt  to  be  unsuitable  for  the  more  ani- 
mated styles  of  poetry. 

'  The  Italian  hendecasyllabic  metre  had  been  devel- 
oped out  of  the  Provencal  lyric  poetry  long  before  it  was 
made  famous  by  Dante.  It  differs  from  the  French 
(a)  in  the  constant  feminine  ending;  (&)  the  freedom  of 


206  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

the  caesura,  which  may  be  either  masculine  or  feminine, 
and  either  after  the  second  or  third  foot ;  (c)  the  use  of 
enjambement,  i.e.  the  absence  of  a  final  pause,  so  as  to 
allow  one  verse  to  run  on  into  another;  (d)  the  trans- 
position of  the  accent  in  any  foot  except  the  last,  but 
especially  the  fourth  foot,  as: 

"  '  Le  Donne  i  Cavalier  Parme  gli  amore,' 

"  This  freedom  of  rhythm  is  accompanied  by  greater 
freedom  in  the  rhyme,  so  as  to  connect  together  not 
merely  two  consecutive  lines  but  whole  stanzas."  1 

Thus  we  perceive  that  the  medium  was  perfected  long 
before  England  had  use  for  it. 

The  five-foot  iambic  is  generally  considered  to  have 
been  introduced  into  England  by  Chaucer,  although,  as 
English  we  have  seen,  echoes  of  it  had  been  wafted 
iambic°or  across  the  Channel  even  earlier;  but  Chaucer's 
heroic  verse  was  the  first  artist  hand  upon  it.  He  used  it 
in  rhymed  couplets,  very  free,  and  delicately  balanced. 
From  his  time  until  we  approach  the  golden  age  of  Eliza- 
beth, there  is  nothing  notable;  yet  it  was  undoubtedly 
a  period  of  metric  as  well  as  literary  gestation.  The 
concentrated  hour  never  arrives  by  accident.  Even  if 
the  earthquake  seem  sudden  and  unprepared,  we  may  be 
sure  that  the  seismic  forces  have  long  been  gathering. 

The  first  use  we  find  made  of  blank  verse,  or  the  un- 
rhymed  five-foot  iambic,  is  in  the  translation  of  the 
second  and  fourth  books  of  the  "^Eneid"  by  Henry 
Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (about  1540).  Surrey  brought 
blank  verse  from  Italy,  where  it  had  recently  been  intro- 
duced by  Trissino ;  but,  although  his  introduction  of  it 
into  English  literature  marks  an  epoch  in  the  history  of 
English  metre,  the  versification  of  the  "  ^Eneid  "  is  so 
JOSEPH  B.  MAYOR:  "  English  Metre : — Postscript." 


HEROICS  207 

harsh  and  crude  that  it  cannot  take  high  rank  as  a  work 
of  art. 

The  first  work  of  real  genius  in  blank  verse  is  Mar- 
lowe's "  Tamburlaine  the  Great  "  (printed  1590),  in  which 
First  reat  ^le  nan^^es  n^s  medium  with  a  masterliness 
work  in  which  stamped  it  as  the  preeminent  one  for 
blank  verse  dram£L  Marlowe  has  not  wholly  sloughed  the 
empiric  roughness,  yet  such  virile  music  does  he  give  us 
that  we  may  easily  pardon  a  few  barbaric  echoes. 

And  from  Marlowe's  moribund  hands  the  lyre  fell  into 
those  of  the  master  musician — the  Protean  Shakespeare, 
as  he  has  been  felicitously  called.  Beneath  his  consum- 
mate touch  the  five-foot  iambic  suddenly  expands  into 
a  mighty  instrument ;  and  so  does  he  play  upon  it  and 
manipulate  it,  so  toss  it  back  and  forth  like  a  shuttle- 
cock, so  combine  and  break  and  re-combine,  so  invent 
and  diversify,  so  riddle  it  with  mysterious  sweet  har- 
monics, that  he  has  wrung  from  it  a  music  at  which, 
in  three  centuries,  the  world  has  never  ceased  won- 
dering. 

Shakespeare  and  Milton  are  the  acknowledged  masters 
of  English  blank  verse,  Milton  in  the  field  of  the  epic, 
Shakespeare  Shakespeare  in  that  of-the  drama.  Milton  ex- 
and  Miiton  ce]s  "m  the  large  sonority  of  his  verse — "the 
of  blank  long-breathed  periods  of  Milton,"  Lowell  calls 
verse  them, — and  Shakespeare  by  his  melodious, 

forceful,  and  apt  diversity.  Milton's  verse  is  full  of  the 
echo  of  mighty  organ  tones;  Shakespeare  has  a  whole 
orchestra  beneath  his  fingers. 

And  we  observe  that  the  objective  poets  who  have  fol- 
lowed these  two,  though  they  have  left  us  noble  and 
resonant  blank  verse,  have  never  quite  touched  the  same 
artistic  heights. 

After    Beaumont    and    Fletcher  the   writing  of  blank 


208  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

verse  declines,  being  to  a  great  extent  replaced  by  the 
rhymed  couplet.  Dryden  in  his  later  dramas  reverts  to 
blank  verse ;  but  his  work  is  tinctured  by  the  false  taste 
of  the  age,  and  is  not  of  the  first  order. 

In  our  own  century  Wordsworth,  Keats,  Shelley, — the 
two  latter  with  an  auroral  promise  which  deepens  the 
Modern  tragedy  of  their  early  deaths, — and  later, 
blank  verse  Browning,  Swinburne,  and  Tennyson  have 
given  us  noble  heroic  verse.  Not  every  one  will  agree 
with  Professor  Corson  that  Browning  was  "  one  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  language-shaping."  The  radical  de- 
fect of  Browning  is  that  he  has  regarded  too  little  the 
unity  of  his  verse,  and  so  indulges  a  propensity  to  break 
up  his  periods  as  to  give  much  of  his  verse  a  jolting 
effect.1  Yet  when  he  pleases  he  can  give  us  such  mag- 
nificent bursts  of  organic  verse-music  as  to  make  us  re- 
gret that  he  could  not  have  held  in  more  importance  the 
purely  aesthetic  side  of  his  art. 

Tennyson  must  be  considered  the  modern  master  of 
the  technique  of  blank  verse  as  well  as  of  the  lyric  forms; 
for,  if  he  somewhat  lack  the  virile  force  of  his  great  con- 
temporary, he  is  so  rich  in  diction,  so  fertile  in  every 
metric  resource,  so  fluid  and  melodious  in  movement,  so 
faultless  in  his  management  of  caesural  effects,  such  a 
master,  in  short,  in  the  unity  of  verse,  as  to  place  him, 

1  "  Browning  inclines  to  a  strong  masculine  realism,  apparently  careless 
of  sound,  and  only  too  happy  to  startle  and  shock  and  puzzle  his  readers. 
.  .  .  The  extreme  harshness  of  many  of  his  lines  is  almost  a  match  for 
anything  in  Surrey,  only  what  in  Surrey  is  helplessness  seems  the  perversity 
of  strength  in  Browning.  ...  I  hardly  know  whether  it  is  fancy  or 
not,  but  to  me  there  is  no  poetry  which  has  such  an  instantaneously  solem- 
nising power  as  Browning's.  We  seem  to  be  in  company  with  some  rough 
rollicking  Silenus,  and  all  of  a  sudden  the  spirit  descends  upon  him,  the 
tone  of  his  voice  changes,  and  he  pours  out  strains  of  the  sublimest 
prophecy." — JOSEPH  B.  MAYOR  :  "  English  Metre,"  chap.  xii. 


HEROICS  209 

for  purposes  of  metrical  study,  next  to  Shakespeare  and 
Milton. 

The  typical  five-foot  iambic  is 

f  rir  rir  fir  nr 

The  absolutely  simple  form  of  it  is  found  in  such  a  line 
as  this: 

"  And  swims,  or  sinks,  or  wades,  or  creeps,  or  flies  ; " 

because  not  only  is  every  bar  normal  in  notation,  but 

each  bar,   as  well  as  the  line,   is  syllabically  complete. 

Yet  more  than  a  line  or  two  in  monosyllables 

Construction  » 

of  blank          is  obviously  harsh,  and  artistically  impossible; 
therefore  art  makes  use  of  a  judicious  mixture  of 
monosyllables,  dissyllables,  and  polysyllables.     (See  chap, 
vii.  for  remarks  upon  the  ponderable  values  of  words.) 

A  very  pure  example  of  normal  five-foot  iambic  may 
be  studied  in  the  quatrain  from  Gray's  "  Elegy,"  on  page 
34.  We  find  here  every  syllable,  down  to  the  anacrusis, 
exactly  in  place  and  of  the  right  weight;  every  line  end- 
stopped;1  and  the  stanza  itself  rounded  to  its  finish. 
This  absolute  metrical  exactness — a  survival  of  the  arbi- 
trary dictum  of  Dryden's  day,  which  decreed  that  every- 
thing, from  a  love-lay  to  a  satire,  should  be  cast  in  the 
end-stopped  heroic  rhymed  couplet — is  not  unsuited  to 
a  certain  formal  quality  inherent  in  elegy;  but  long- 
prolonged  it  would  become  tiresome.  Successive  end- 
stopped  lines  obviously  make  versification  .stiff  and 
mechanical.  Blank  verse  was  so  written  by  those  who 

1  Verse  is  called  end-stopped  when  there  comes  a  natural  or  rhetorical 
pause  at  the  end  of  the  line,  marking  off  every  five  bars  uniformly.  When 
this  terminal  pause  is  absent,  and  one  has  to  carry  the  meaning  on  into  the 
next  line,  the  verse  is  called  run-on.  Overflow  is  another  name  for  the 
latter  ;  and  we  also  use  the  French  word  enjambement, 
14 


210  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF    VERSE 

used  it  first,  and  in  Shakespeare's  earlier  work  we  find 
a  great  predominance  of  end-stopped  lines;  but  by  his 
middle  period — the  period  of  the  great  tragedies — we 
see  his  use  of  the  run-on  line  in  full  force. 

The  masters  of  blank  verse  have  found  means  to  escape 
from  the  monotony  of  the  typic  scheme,  and  to  give  flexi- 
Waysof  bility  and  expressiveness  to  their  verse  in  two 
normal*  ways,  viz.:  by  varying  the  bar-notation,  and 
scheme  by  varying  the  caesural  effects.  The  bar-nota- 
tion may  be  varied  (l)  by  dropping  the  anacrusis,  (2)  by 
doubling  a  note,  (3)  by  an  occasional  suspended  syllable, 
(or  the  prolonging  of  a  single  syllable  through  a  bar), 
(4)  by  the  use  of  the  feminine  ending.  These  features 
accelerate  or  retard  the  movement  of  the  verse  so  as  to 
allow  a  free  play  for  feeling. 

The  caesural  effects  are  varied  by  the  use  of  enjambe- 
ment — overflow — which  carries  the  sense  into  the  line 
beyond,  putting  a  pause  or  caesura  there. 

The  caesura  plays  a  most  important  part  in  blank  verse, 
since  upon  its  nice  adjustment  depends  the  cadence  of 
Part  played  the  verse, — those  larger  rhythms  of  single 
by  caesura  phrases,  and  the  great  rhythmic  swing  of  whole 
periods.  Unless  the  poet  fully  understands  caesural 
effects  he  will  not  be  able  to  write  organic  and  harmoni- 
ous blank  verse.1 

1  It  is  interesting  here  to  compare  Gascoigne's  rule  of  metre,  as  given 
forth  in  his  "  Instruction  Concerning  the  Making  of  Verse  in  English," 
published  in  1575.  "  There  are  certain  pauses  or  rests  in  a  verse,  which 
may  be  called  caesures,  whereof  I  should  be  loth  to  stand  long,  since  it  is 
at  the  discretion  of  the  writer,  and  they  have  been  first  devised,  as  should 
seem  by  the  musicians  ;  but  yet  thus  much  I  will  adventure  to  write  that  in 
mine  opinion,  in  a  verse  of  eight  syllables  the  pause  will  stand  best  in  the 
midst,  in  a  verse  of  ten  it  will  be  best  placed  at  the  end  of  the  first  four 
syllables."  And  again:  "nowadays  in  English  rimes  we  use  none  other 
order  but  a  foot  of  two  syllables,  whereof-  the  first  is  depressed  or  made 
short  and  the  second  elevate  or  made  long:." 


HEROICS  2ii 

Classical  canons  fixed  the  caesural  pause  in  the  third 
foot  (bar),  though  it  might  be  in  the  fourth ;  but  modern 
poets  follow  no  rule,  and  place  it  variously,  according  to 
the  exigencies  of  the  verse.  An  examination  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost"  shows  us  that  Milton  generally  uses  the 
caesura  normally,  in  the  third  or  fourth  bars — thereby 
preserving  the  balance  of  the  prolonged  enjambement  of 
many  of  his  periods; — but  we  also  find  plenty  of  instances 
of  caesura  in  any  other  bar.  A  favourite  pause  with  Shake- 
speare is  before  the  last  accented  syllable  of  a  verse. 
Tennyson  much  affects  a  pause  after  the  first  accented 
syllable. 

The  so-called  feminine  caesura  is  the  pause  after  an 
unaccented  syllable.  Thus: 

"  Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashioned  for  it  " 

Surrey  and  Sackville  made  almost  no  use  of  the  in- 
ternal pause,  and  Marlowe  not  nearly  so  much  as  the 
masters  who  followed  him ;  but  in  all  blank  verse  we  find 
plenty  of  lines  without  an  internal  pause,  while  many 
others  carry  more  than  one. 

Modern  art  tends  to  make  the  caesura  a  rhetorical, 
rather  than  a  merely  metrical  pause,  or  more  correctly  to 
make  them  coincide. 

In  all  cases  where  variation  is  made  from  the  normal 
verse-scheme,  we  shall  find  that  the  metrical  balance  is 
Metrical  restored  by  some  other  device, — a  doubling  of 
balance  notes,  or  a  peculiarly  heavy  syllable,  in  the 
bar  preceding  or  following  the  irregular  one.1  Thus  the 
verse  is  made  interconsistent,  and  the  volume  of  sound 

1  This  license  in  the  arrangement  of  syllables  in  a  bar  is  not  admissible 
in  stanzaic  forms,  because  the  very  nature  of  the  stanza  demands  a  uniform 
flow,  and  to  break  it  would  destroy  the  proportioned  rhythmic  effect  neces- 
sary to  song. 


212  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS   OF    VERSE 

preserved.  This  is  peculiarly  true  of  Shakespeare,  whose 
variants  are  especially  daring. 

Many  metrists  speak  of  these  variants  as  "  the  shift- 
ing of  the  accent,"  which  is  misleading.  The  rhythmic 
accent  is  never  shifted,  for  it  is  what  marks  the  measure- 
ments of  the  bar;  nor  in  good  blank  verse  is  the  rhetori- 
cal accent  shifted,  for  we  do  not  now  admit  wrenched 
accents;  but  the  number  of  syllables  to  a  bar  is  shifted, 
throwing  occasionally  a  heavier  burden  than  the  normal 
in  one,  or  a  lighter  burden  than  the  normal  in  another. 

Discarding  now  classical  nomenclatures,  we  will  state 
that  English  blank  verse  is  composed  of  a  succession  of 
Basic  verses,  or  lines,  in  free  2/5  verse,  in  each  of 

formula  of  which  lines  the  pause  maybe  either  final,  in- 
ternal, or  both  final  and  internal,  or  in  some 
cases  altogether  absent.  But  the  typical  scheme  must 
reappear  with  sufficient  persistence  to  dominate  the  verse 
and  give  it  the  organic  stamp,  thus  preserving  its  unity. 
"  All  metrical  effects  are  to  a  great  extent  relative  "  says 
Professor  Corson,  "  and  relativity  of  effect  depends,  of 
course,  upon  having  a  standard  in  the  mind  or  the  feel- 
ings. In  other  words,  there  can  be  no  variation  of  any 
kind  without  something  to  vary  from.  Now  the  more 
closely  the  poet  adheres  to  his  standard, — to  the  even 
tenor  (modulus)  of  his  verse, — so  long  as  there  is  no  logi- 
cal nor  (esthetic  motive  for  departing  from  it,  the  more 
effective  do  his  departures  become  when  they  are  suffi- 
ciently motived.  All  non-significant  departures  weaken 
the  significant  ones.  In  other  words,  all  non-significant 
departures  weaken  or  obscure  the  standard  to  the  mind 
and  the  feelings.  .  .  .  But  a  great  poet  is  presumed  to 
have  metrical  skill;  and  where  ripples  occur  in  the  stream 
of  his  verse,  they  will  generally  be  found  to  justify  them- 
selves as  organic;  i.e.  they  are  a  part  of  the  expression." 


HEROICS  213 

'  The  secret  of  complex  and  melodious  blank  verse," 
says  John  Addington  Symonds,  "  lies  in  preserving  the 
balance  and  proportion  of  syllables  while  varying  their 
accent  and  their  relative  weight  and  volume,  so  that  each 
line  in  a  period  shall  carry  its  proper  burden  of  sound, 
but  the  burden  shall  be  differently  distributed  in  the  suc- 
cessive verses." 

In  brief,  heroic  blank  verse  is  a  five-stringed  instru- 
ment, to  which  the  poet  brings  the  sole  gauge  of  an 
attuned  and  experienced  ear,  and  upon  which  he  may 
make  music  according  to  the  inspiration  of  his  particular 
genius. 

Following  are  a  number  of  examples  of  blank  verse 
notations  ranging  from  Marlowe  to  Tennyson.  In  those 
from  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  Tennyson,  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  give  groups  illustrative  (i)  of  simple  doubled 
notes,  (2)  of  direct  attack,  and  (3)  of  suspended  syllables, 
i.e.  a  single  syllable  to  a  bar, — effects  not  really  separable, 
since  the  presence  of  either  the  second  or  third  generally 
involves  the  first, — adding  to  those  from  Shakespeare 
three  longer  periods  taken  from  his  early,  his  mature, 
and  his  latest  works,  as  evidencing  distinct  modifications 
in  technique.  The  two  extracts  from  Browning  are 
selected  to  show  extremes  of  style.  Note  in  the  last  line 
of  the  quotation  from  Keats  a  remarkable  circumstance. 
Here  we  have  the  anacrusis  omitted,  but  there  are  no 
balancing  doubled  notes.  The  ear  of  the  poet  did  not, 
however,  betray  him ;  for  the  feminine  ending  would  of 
itself  balance  the  line;  but  besides  this,  the  fact  of  its 
being  an  invocation  throws  a  peculiar  emphasis  upon  the 
first  three  words,  which  are  all  of  light  syllables,  thus 
increasing  the  general  volume  of  sound. 

In  all  the  examples  please  notice  how  the  use  of  the 
direct  attack  gives  a  certain  dynamic  force  to  the  verse ; 


214  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

also  how  a  suspended  syllable  stimulates  emotion  and 
intensifies  the  animus  of  the  moment.  The  imagination 
hangs  as  it  were  breathless,  awaiting  the  next  word. 

MARLOWE 

nr  rir  nr  fir  nr 

Now    clear    the     tri  -  pie      re  -  gion    of       the     air, 

rir  n  r  n  r  n  r  n  r 

And     let        the    Ma  -  jes   -   ty       of   Heav'n  be  -  hold 

nr  n  r  n  r  n  r  n r 

Their  scourge  and    ter  -  ror    tread   on       em  -  per  -  ours. 

rir  rir  rir  rir  rir 

Smile,  stars,  that  reign'd   at       my     na  -    tiv    -   i    -    ty, 

nr  rir  rir  rir  rir 

And    dim     the  bright  -  ness     of     your  neigh-bour  lamps  ! 

nr  fir  rir  rir  fir 

Dis  -  dain     to      bor  -  row    light      of     Cyn  -  thi   -    a ! 

fif  fir  rir  rir  nr 

For       I,      the     chief  -  est   lamp     of       all      the    earth, 

r  r  rir  rir  n  r  nr 

First     ns  -  mg       in      the  East  with     mild    as  -  pe'ct,1 

1  A    wrenched  accent,    common    in    Elizabethan   times,    but  not    now 
admitted. 


HEROICS  215 


ri  r  n 

But     fix   -  ed    now  in  the  Me-ri-dian     line 

nr  nr  nr  nr  nr 

Will   send     up         fire  1  to    your   turn  -  ing  spheres, 

fir  nr  nr  ri  r  ri  r 

And  cause     the     sun      to      bor  -  row  light     of       you. 

nr  nr  nr  ri  r  ri  r 

My   sword  struck       fire        from    his     coat     of      steel 

irppir  rir  nr  nr  ->i 

Ev'n  in  Bith  -  yn  -  ia,    when      I      took    this      Turk. 

— "  Tamburlaine  the  Great,"  iv.,  2. 

SHAKESPEARE  2 

ri;  fir 

For    mine's      a       suit 

nr  r  r  nr  nwir  r 

That     touches       Cae  -  sar       nearer.   Read  it,  great  Cae  -  sar. 

— "Julius  Caesar,"  iii.,  i. 

ri  yr  i  r  ri  r  r  i  r  rir 

Le  -  gitimate      Ed  -  gar,      I      must  have  your  land. 

— "  Lear,"  i.,  2. 

1  Fire  is  treated  here  and  below  as  two  syllables,  which,  strictly  speak- 
ing, it  is  not. 

2  The  Rolfe  edition  has  been  used  in  these  extracts. 


216  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

nr  n  r  n  r  n  r  ri  r 

And    now      and   then    an      am  -  pie      tear  trilPd   down 

riLrrir  . 

Her      delicate     cheek.  — "  Lear,"  iv.,  3. 

nr  nr  ric/nr  nr 

De   -   liv  -   er     this   with      modesty       to      the  queen. 

— "  Henry  VIII.,"  ii.,  2. 

rw  r  n  r  rir  MLM 

Two  of  the       fairest       stars    in       all     the      heaven, 

rjriLrnr  r  r  nr  j\ 

Having  some  business,     do      en  -  treat  her     eyes 

rir  rir  nr  nr  nr 

To         twinkle         in      their  spheres   till      they       re  -  turn. 

— "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  ii.,  2. 

i  wir  rir  rif  rir  vi 

Give  me  thy  hand.     I      had      a   thing     to      say, — 

rir  n  r  n  r  n  r  n  r 

But        I       will     fit       it      with  some    bet  -  ter       time. 

— "  King  John,"  iii.,  3. 


HEROICS  217 

nr  n  p  n  r 

And  when       I      love   thee     not, 

iLrrif  rir 

Chaos  is    come     a  -  gain. 

—  «  Othello,"  iii.,  3. 

i  tin  r  n  r  nr  nrv 

Curses,  not   loud,  but    deep,  mouth-honour,   breath, 

IPP  n  r  nr  nr  nr  n 

Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  de  -  ny,  and   dare  not.  — 

—  "  Macbeth,"  v.,  3. 


n  r  n  r  nr 

I     spurn  thee    like      a      cur  out  of  my  way. 

"Julius  Caesar,"  iii.,  i. 

rir  rir    ir^ir  nr 

See,  how     my  sword      weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death  ! 

—Third  part  of  "  Henry  VI.,"  v.,  6. 

n  r  ri  r 

The   burn  -  ing    crest 

P  v\?   if  rif  rir  nr 

Of  the     old,  fee  -  ble,    and   day  -  wearied     sun, 

—  "  King  John,"  v.,  4. 


2l8  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF   VERSE 

lunr  vir  rir  rir 

Horrible    sight !  —     Now      I       see      'tis    true ; 

—"Macbeth,"  iv.,  i. 

rir  rir  rir  rir  rir 

It     was     the    lark,    the     her  -  aid      of      the    morn, 

rir  fir  rif  rir  rir 

No     nightin  -  gale ;  look,  love,  what     envious   streaks 

rir  rirjrir  rir  rir 

Do   lace     the      severing  clouds     in        yonder     east. 

ri  r  n  r  n  r  ri  r  r  r 

Night's    candles       are   burnt  out,    and       jocund      day 

ri  r  ri  r  ri  r  ri  r  rir 

Stands    tip  -  toe      on     the         misty        mountain  tops. 

— "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  iii.,  5. 

rir  r  r  rir  AW  r  r 

To      be,       or     not      to       be, —          that  is  the      question : 


Lffir  rir  rir  rir  r 

Whether  'tis     no  -  bier      in  the  mind      to          suffer 

rir  ri  r  n  r  n  r  n  r  r 

The  slings  and        arrows       of  out    -    ra-geous     fortune, 


HEROICS  219 

rir  nr  rir  r 

Or  to  take  arms     a  -  gainst    a      sea      of        troubles, 

nr  rir  ri^nr  rir 

And    by       op  -  pos  -  ing  end  them  ?  To  die, — to    sleep, — 

rir  rir  rir  rir  n  r 

No  more;  and     by       a     sleep     to      say      we     end 

nr  rif  rir  riLrrir 

The  heart-ache  and    the    thousand       natural   shocks 

rir  nr  rir  rir  rir  r 

That  flesh     is     heir  to, —  'tis        a     con  -  sum  -  ma  -  tion 

rir  rir  rir 

De    -    voutly        to       be  wish'd. 

—"Hamlet,"  iii.,  i. 

rir  rir  r 

"Ad-mir'd  Mi  -  ran  -  da  ! 

r  i  r  rir  rir  fir  rir 

In  -  deed    the     top      of      ad  -  mi   -  ra  -  tion ;  worth 

n  r  n  r  n  r  n  i/ri  r  r 

What's   dearest       to     the  world  !  Full     many  a        la  -  dy 

0  Nr  ri  r  rir  ML/ rir 

I  have  eyed  with     best   re  -  gard,  and    many   a    time 


220  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF    VERSE 

rifjrir  nr  nr  nr  r 

Th'    harmony     of    their  tongues  hath  in   -   to      bondage 

rif  riL/nr  riLrr  r  r 

Brought  my   too     diligent     ear.   For       several       virtues 

nr  rit/rir  nr  nr  r 

Have   I     lik'd     several       women :        never  any 

n  r  n  r  n  r  nr  nr 

With    so      full     soul,  but    some    de  -  feet      in      her 

n  r  n  r  n  r  n  r  nr 

Did      quarrel      with     the      noblest    grace    she  owed, 

n  r  nr  nr 

And  put      it      to      the    foil:" 

— "  Tempest,"  iii.,  i. 

MILTON 

if   rir 

That       sea  -  beast 

n  r  n  r  nr  nr  fir 

Le  -  vi   -  a  -   than,  which  God   of       all       his  works 

nr  rifjfir  nr  nr 

Cre  -  at   -   ed    hugest  that  swim  the       o  -  cean  stream. 

— "  Paradise  Lost,"  i. 


HEROICS 


221 


rir 

And  roll'd 


n  r  rir 


r  r  r 

In       bil  -  lows,   leave  in  the   midst       a        hor    -    rid    vale. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost/'  i. 


rir  rir  r  r 

For    bliss  -  ful    Par   -   a  -  disc 


rir  rir  rir  n  rw  r 

Of    God     the     gar  -  den    was,     by     him  in  the  east 

rir  rir  n 

Of     E  -   den  plant  -  ed. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  iv. 

r  r  rir 

Con  -  cern  -  ing  which 

rir  rirjrir  rir  rir 

I    charg'd  thee,  saying  :  Thou   shalt     not      eat       there  -  of, 

"  Paradise  Lost,"  x. 


r  rir  rir  ri rvi 

Torn  from  Pe  -  lor  -  us,      or      the    shat  -  ter'd  side 

nrjr  r  n 

Of    thundering    JEt  -  na, 


— "  Paradise  Lost,"  i. 


222  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

rir  rir 

Part,  huge     of    bulk, 

icirwrwr  n  r  rir 

Wallowing  un-wieldy,  e  -  nor  -  mous   in     their    gait, 

icjnr  n 

Tempest  the     o  -  cean : 

— "  Paradise  Lost,"  vii. 

icjvir  n  r  n  r  nr^i 

Laden  with  fruit  of    fair  -  est    col  -  ours  mix'd, 

iLrr  r 

Ruddy  and  gold. 

— "  Paradise  Lost,"  ix. 


WIT 

And  the  fresh  field 


fir  n  r  nr 

Calls  us  ;  we  lose     the   prime,  to    mark   how  spring 

rir  rir 

Our    tended   plants, 

"  Paradise  Lost,"  v. 


i  Lrrir  t\f    ir^i  r 

Millions  of   flam  -  ing  swords,   drawn  from  the  thighs 


HEROICS 


223 


r  r  fir  nr 

Of   might   -  y        cher   -   u  -  bim  : 


— "  Paradise  Lost,"  i. 


nr 

Hail,  holy   Light  !         offspring  of  Heav'n  first  -  bom, 

nr  r  r  r  r  rir  r  r 

Or      of     th'  E  -  ter  -  nal      co   -   e   -   ter  -  nal    beam, 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  iii. 

rirLfir  rir  rir  r  r 

The    chariot         of        Pa  -  ter  -   nal     De    -    i    -     ty, 

ic/nr    rrjir  rir-'i 

Flashing  thick  flames,  wheel  within  wheel   in  -  drawn, 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  vi. 

rir  nr  nryicjrir 

O       vi  -  sions    ill     fore  -  seen  !  better  had    I 

ri  r  nr  rir  n 

Liv'd  ig  -  nor  -  ant      of       fu  -  ture, 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  xi. 


ir  fir  nr 

High     in     front   ad-vanc'd, 


224  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF  VERSE 

r  r  n  r  nr  nr  r  r 

The  brandish'  d  sword  of     God     be  -  fore  them  blaz'd, 


r  nr  n  r  n  r 

Fierce  as  a     com  -  et  ;  which,  with    tor  -  rid    heat, 

fir  n  r  .  n  r  n  r  n  r 

And  va  -  pour     as      the       Libyan        air       a  -  dust, 

ri  r  n  r  n  LTM  r  n  r 

Be  -  gan     to      parch  that  temperate  clime  ;  where-at 

nr  nr  nunr  nr 

In       either        hand   the     hastening      an  -  gel    caught 

riL/rir  rirppir  r  r 

Our  lingering     par  -  ents,    and  to  the  east  -  ern   gate 

irwr  nr  nr  nr 

Led  them  di-rect,  and  down  the  cliff    as     fast 


.r  nr  nr  nr 

To  the  sub-ject  -  ed    plain  ;  then  dis  -  ap-peared. 

—"Paradise  Lost,"  xii. 

WORDSWORTH 

r.r  nr 

For      I      have  learn'd 


HEROICS  225 


nr  n  r  n.r  n  r  n  r 

To     look       on       Nature,      not       as        in      the      hour 

r  r  r  r  r.  r  r  r  r  i  r 

Of     thoughtless  youth ;  but  hear  -  ing      of  -  ten  -  times 

r  I  r  r  i  r  r  i  r  r  I  r  r  i  r 

The   still,     sad     mus  -  ic       of       hu  -  man   -   i   -    ty, 

nr  nr  rir  n  r  n  r 

Not  harsh    nor     grat-ing,    though  of      am  -  pie   power 

fir  nr  nr  rir  nr 

lo       chasten      and    sub -due.     And      I      have    felt 

nr  n  r  nr  n  r  n  r 

A        presence      that     dis-turbs     me      with  the     joy 

rir  ri  r  nr  r  r  rir 

Of       el    -   e  -  vat  -  ed  thoughts;  a     sense   sub-lime 

n  r  n  r  n  r  rir  rir 

Of     something      far     more  deep  -  ly      in  -  ter  -  fus'd, 

ri  r  n  r  n  r  n  r  ri  r 

Whose  dwelling        is      the     light     of      set  -  ting  suns, 

i  mi  r  n  r  ri  r  ri  r 

And  the  round  o  -  cean,  and   the      liv  -  ing      air, 


226  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 


r  n  r  n  r  n 

And  the  blue  sky,  and      in      the  mind    of    man  : 

r  r  rif  rir  rir  nr 

A       mo  -  tion      and     a      spir  -   it,     that     im  -  pels 

nr  nr  nr  rir  rir 

All      thinking   things,   all     ob  -  jects     of       all   thought, 

fir  rir  n 

And    rolls  through  all      things. 

—  "Tinturn  Abbey." 

SHELLEY 

rir  n  r  nr  n  r  n  r  r 

From  all      the    blasts   of  heav'n  thou   hast    de  -  scend  -  ed  : 

r  r  n  r  r  r  nr  rir 

Yes,   like       a      spir   -   it,     like      a  thought,  which  makes 

rir  n  r   \tn\  r  rir 

Un  -  wont  -  ed    tears       throng  to  the  horn  -y      eyes, 

rir  rir  r  r  rir  rir 

And  beat-ings     haunt    the     des   -   o    -    lat  -   ed   heart, 

r  r  rir  rir  rir  r  r  r 

Which  should  have  learnt  repose  :  thou  hast      de  -  scend  -  ed, 


HEROICS  227 

irjri  r  nr  r  r  n  r  vi 

Cradled  in     tempests;    thou   dost   wake,  O   Spring! 

n  r  n  r  n  r  nr  PI  r 

O     child   of        many    winds !  As     sudden  -  ly 

nr  nr  riLfrir  r  r 

Thou  com-est        as      the      memory       of       a     dream, 

PIP  rir  rif  nr  nr 

Which  now  is     sad     be-cause     it   hath  been  sweet ; 

PIT  PIP  rir  PIP  DP 

Like   gen-ius,      or     like     joy  which  ris-eth      up 

n  r  n  r  ,/iLrnr  rir 

As   from    the   earth,     clothing  with  gold  -  en   clouds 

rir    rir     rir 

The          desart  of         our       life. 

— "  Prometheus  Unbound,"  ii.,  i. 

KEATS 

nr  rir  rir 

Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell     me       if      thou  seest 

rir  PI  r  n  r  n  r  PI  r 

A       cer  -  tain  shape     or        shadow,       making      way 


228  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

nr  rirjrir  nr  nr 

With    wings     or     char-i-ot     fierce      to         re   -   poss  - 

r  i  u  r  i  r  r  i  r  fir  fir 

A    heaven  he     lost     ere  -  while  :  it     must  —  it      must 


nr  nr  M 

Be  of  ripe     progress  —  Sat  -urn    must     be    king. 

nr  nr  n  r  nr  nr 

Yes,  there  must  be      a      gold  -  en     vie  -  to  -  ry  ; 

fir  nr  ri  r  nr  nr 

There  must  be  gods  thrown  down,  and  trumpets  blown 

n  r  ri  r  nr  nr  nr 

Of       tri  -  umph  calm,  and  hymns  of      f  es  -  ti  -  val 

r  r  nr  nr  r  r  nr 

Up  -  on      the    gold  clouds  met  -  ro  -  pol   -   i  -  tan, 

i  Lf  r  i  r  r  i  r  r  i  r  r  i  r 

Voices  of     soft     pro  -  claim,  and     sil  -  ver     stir 

nf  rir  fir  nr  nr 

Of  strings  in     hoi  -  low  shells  ;  and  there  shall  be 

iLffir  nr  yirppir  y 

Beautiful  things  made  new,          for  the  sur  -  prise 


HEROICS  229 

r  nr  rir  nr  vi 

Of  the  sky  -  children ;      I       will     give     command  : 

ir  n  r  nr  nr  rir  n 

The  -  a  !      The  -  a  !     The  -  a  !    where   is         Saturn? 

— "  Hyperion,"  i. 

BROWNING 
I 

rir 

I     haste 

r  r  rir  rir  nr  nr 

To       contem  -  plate     un  -  daz  -  zled  some  one    truth, 

r  r  nr  r  r  r  r  r  r 

Its       bearings     and      ef  -  fects     a  -  lone — at     once 

nr  rir  rir  vic_rrir 

What     was      a     speck    ex-pands  into   a     star, 

i  u  r  i  r  rir  n  r  r  i  r 

Asking  a     life      to     pass     ex  -  plor  -  ing   thus, 

rir  rir  rir  rir  rir 

Till     I      near  craze.     I        go       to     prove  my     soul ! 


230  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

fir  nr  nr  fir  nr 

I      see      my    way     as     birds  their  track  -  less   way — 

ri  r  n  r  n  r  n  r  ri  r 

I       shall     ar  -  rive  !    what  time,  what  cir  -  cuit  first, 

r  r  n  r  ri  r  nr  rir 

I       ask    not:     but    un  -  less    God  send     his     hail 

nr  ri  r  n  r  ri  r  ri  r 

Or      blinding       fire  -  balls,  sleet,   or         stifling     snow, 

ri  r  r  r  r  r  nr  nr 

In   some  time — his    good  time — I       shall     ar  -  rive  : 

rip    ifppi  r  rir  nr 

He  guides        me  and  the  bird.    In    his   good  time  ! 

— "  Paracelsus." 

II 

ir  rir  rir 

Do    you     tell    me    four  ? 

p  pir  rir    i r  rir  rir 

Then  the  dead  are  scarce  qui  -  et  where  they    lie, 

rir  firc/ir  rir  rir 

Old   Pie  -  tro,    old  Vio  -  Ian  -  te,    side    by     side 


HEROICS  231 

£>  PIT  rif  nr  nr  nr 

At    the  church  Lo  -  ren  -  zo, — oh,  they  know    it    well ! 

ir  nrwr  nr  nrvi 

So       do     I.  But  my  wife   is     still      a  -  live, 

nr  nr  nr  nr  nr 

Has  breath     e  -  nough  to     tell    her    sto  -  ry      yet, 

rir  ri  r  n  r  nr  nr 

Her  way,   which    is       not   mine,   no   doubt    at      all. 

nr  rifirr  rif  rir 

And   Ca  -  pon  -  sac  -  chi,    you    have  summoned  him, — 

ri  r  n  r  ri  r  ri  r  ri  r 

Was     he       so       far      to      send  for  ?   Not     at    hand  ? 

nr  ri  rwr  rir  nr 

I  thought  some  few  o'  the  stabs  were   in     his    heart, 

rir  rir  rir  ri  r  rir 

Or      had     not    been     so      lav  -  ish :   less     had  served. 

n  r  rir  rir  rir  rir 

Well,  he      too     tells     his     sto   -    ry, — flor  -  id   prose 

rir  nr  rir  nr  rir 

As  smooth  as   mine    is  rough.  You  see,     my  lords, 


232  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

p>  PIT  riL/nr  nr  nr 

There  will  be      a       lying  in  -  tox  -  i  -  cat  -  ing  smoke 

rw  r  iif  fir  rirv 

Born  of  the  blood,  —  con  -  f  us  -  ion    pro  -  ba  -  bly,  — 

rif  fir  nr  nr  r  r 

For    lies     breed  lies  —  but     all     that    rests    with  you  ! 

riLfrir  nr  nr  nr 

The      trial  is      no    con  -  cern    of  mine  ;  with  me 

nrwr  nr  nr  nr 

The  main  of  the  care    is       o  -  ver  :    I       at    least 

ic/rif  nr  nr  nr 

Recognize    who    took  that  huge     burden       off, 

r  n  r 


Let  me  be-gin      to      live      a  -  gain. 
—  "  The  Ring  and  the  Book.—  Count  Guido  Franceschini." 

TENNYSON 

fir  r  i  r 

And  while      I   look'd 

rif  nr  rirmcjrir 

And       listen     -     ed,     the   full-flowing    river   of    speech 


HEROICS  233 

nr  n  r  n  r 

Came  down  up  -  on     my     heart. 

— "  OEnone." 

nr  nr 

The     riv  -  er   sloped 

nr  n LrriLrnr  nr 

To  plunge   in       cataract,     shattering     on     black  blocks, 

n  r   r  ( r   r  i 

A    breadth    of          thunder. 

— "  The  Princess." 

nr 

And   thrice 

nr  rirjrir  nr  nr 

They  clash'd  to   -    gether  and  thrice    they    brake    their  spears. 

— "  Enid." 

i  r  ri 

The   great  brand 

nr  nr  nr  nr  nr 

Made  lightnings  in      the  splendour    of     the  moon, 

n  r  nr  nr  nr 

And      flashing      round     and     round,  and  whirl' d  in  an    arch, 


234  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

nr  rif  nr  r  r  nr 

Shot  like    a       streamer     of      the   northern  morn, 

— "  The  Passing  of  Arthur." 

iLrrir  n  r  n  r  n  r  s\ 

Oaring  one   arm,    and      bearing         in       my     left 

r  i  r    r  i  r     r  i  r     r  i  r    r  i  r 

The  weight      of          all         the      hopes      of        half       the  world 

ir  riLrrir  nr 

Strove     to      buffet  to    land     in     vain. 

—"The  Princess." 


nr 

"How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth,  "as  a  false  knight 

fir  r  i  r  r  i  r  fir  r  i  r 

Or       e    -    vil    king     be  -  fore      my   lance,    if     lance 

n  r  nr 

Were   mine    to     use — " 

— "  Gareth  and  Lynette." 

n  r  n  r  n  r  n  r  nr 

The    voice     of        E  -  nid,       Yniol's        daughter,    rang 


HEROICS  235 

nr  nr  nr^i 

Clear  thro'  the  o  -  pen   casement     of      the    hall, 

ILf 

singing  ; 

—  "  Enid." 

r  r  r  nr  nrvi 

Stabb'd  thro'  the  heart's  af  -  fee  -  tions     to     the    heart  ! 


rirvi 

Seeth'dlike  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's    milk! 


Kill'  d  with  a  word        worse  than  a  life      of    blows! 

—"Vivien. 

nr  TILT 

As       if       the      flower 

n  r  n  r  n  r  n  r  fir 

That  blows     a      globe    of        af  -  ter       ar  -  row  -  lets, 


n  r  nr  nr 

Ten    thousand  -  fold  had  grown,    flash'd  the  fierce  shield, 

nr 

All    sun  ; 

—  "  Gareth  and  Lynette." 


236  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF  VERSE 

n  r  n  r  nr 

And  then   did      ei  -  ther    side, 

nr  n  r  n  r  n  r  n  r 

They   that       as-  sail'  d,  and    they    that    held    the       lists, 

nr  n  r  nr  yicjrir 

Set   lance     in     rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly   move, 

—  "  Elaine." 

nr 

The   pang 

r  r  nr    iwir  nr 

That  makes   a       man,  in  the  sweet  face     of      her 

nr  rifv  wirt/ir 

Whom  he     loves  most,  lonely  and  mis  -  era  -  ble. 

—"Enid." 


r  r  i  r  r  i  r 

I      that   heard  her  whine 

fir   ft  r  n  r  n  r  n  r 

And    sniv   -   el,     be  -  ing       eunuch    -    hearted      too, 


r  nr  r  r  nivi 

Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm    that  twists   in     hell, 


HEROICS  237 

nr  fir  n  r  n  r  n  r 

And    stings      it  -  self      to       ev    -    er   -    lasting       death, 

rir  fir  nr  fir  nr 

To     hang  what  -  ev  -     er   knight   of    thine      I     fought 

nr  nr 

And    tumbled.     Art  thou  king  ?        Look  to  thy  life  ! 

— "  The  Last  Tournament." 

From  the  foregoing  tables — which  the  student  may  in- 
definitely multiply  for  himself — it  will  be  apparent  that 
all  true  or  organic  blank  verse  is  easily  divided  and 
analysed  by  the  system  of  musical  notation. 

There  have  not  been  wanting,  from  Dryden's  day  to 
ours,  plenty  of  critics  to  cry  out  against,  and  declare 
AH  blank  "  ^fcgftimate/!  a  great  deal  of  the  verse  of 
verse  Shakespeare  and  Milton;  though  it  remains 

bjntiie™1  a  Para-dox  why  verse  which  is  illegitimate 
foregoing  should  have  become  world-classic.  But,  an- 
alysed by  bar  and  note,  we  find  rhythmic  diffi- 
culties melt  into  thin  air.  Those  age-long  bugaboos  of 
the  conventional  metrist,  extra  syllables,  are  perceived  to 
be  not  extra  syllables  at  all,  but  variants  of  free  verse ; 
and  we  see  that  "  looked  at  musically,"  and  their  longi- 
tude reckoned  by  the  accents  and  not  by  the  arbitrary 
foot-divisions,  they  settle  themselves  into  place  as  har- 
moniously as  the  passing  notes  of  a  musical  composition. 
It  is  no  longer  necessary  to  slur  syllables  in  order  to 
scramble  them  into  a  fixed  metrical  space  (indeed  the 
genius  of  the  English  language  does  not  really  permit 
of  such  things  as  slurring  or  eliding),  nor  to  chop 


238  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

them  in  two  in  order  to  drag  them  to  the  conventional 
limits. 

Shakespeare,  writing  for  the  boards  and  not  for  the  lit- 
erary critic,  adjusts  the  music  of  his  verse  to  appeal  to 
the  ear  rather  than  to  the  eye;  and  we  must  remember 
too  one  great  fact,  viz. :  that  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
(indeed  to  an  extent  all  the  great  poets)  rhythmise,  not 
only  single  verses,  but  whole  passages,  and  that,  for  im- 
partial criticism,  whole  passages  and  not  fragments  of 
them  must  therefore  be  taken  into  consideration. 

In  Shakespeare  a  steady  growth  is  observable  in  the 
mastery  of  his  instrument.  The  later  work  not  only 
shake-  shows  more  metric  daring,  but  also  greater 
of  feminine*  fluencv»  more  use  of  enjambemeut,  and  an  in- 
endings  creased  tendency  to  the  use  of  the  feminine 
ending.  The  limits  of  the  latter  he  never  oversteps,  as 
does  Fletcher,1  and  it  adds  richness  to  the  cadence  of 
his  verse  without  ever  impairing  its  virility.  Thus  a 
table  of  Mr.  Fleay's  gives  an  average  of  feminine  endings 
in  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost"  of  one  to  sixty-four  and 
one-third  lines;  in  "  Cymbeline,"  of  one  to  three  and 
one-half  lines. 

Coincident  with  his  adoption  of  enjambement,  and  for 
the  same  reason — freedom — Shakespeare  drops  rhyme. 
Rhyme  not  only  hampers  drama  tonally,  but  to  a  great 
extent  it  involves  the  end-stop.  The  Dryden  and  Pope 
rhymed  couplets  are  carefully  and  uniformly  end-stopped, 
giving  to  the  verse  a  trip-hammer  effect.  But  there  are 
plenty  of  narrative  poems  in  rhymed  couplets  with  con- 

1  "  By  the  use  of  the  feminine  ending  the  poet  endeavours  to  reproduce 
the  easy  tone  of  ordinary  life  ;  and  this  no  doubt  explains  its  frequency  in 
Fletcher,  the  poet  of  society.  There  is  felt  to  be  something  formal, 
stilted,  high-flown,  poetic,  in  the  regular  iambic  metre." — JOSEPH  B. 
MAYOR  :  "  English  Metre,"  chap.  xi. 


HEROICS  239 

siderable  use  of  enjambement,  which  are  most  graceful 
and  charming.  (See  preceding  chapter.) 

The  period  of  Shakespeare's  breaking  loose  from  tradi- 
tion is  further  characterised  by  his  free  adoption  of  light 
shake-  and  weak  endings,  i.e.  the  ending  of  a  line  upon 
speare'suse  an  insignificant  syllable.  Thus  such  words  as 

of  weak 

and  light  am,  are,  be,  do,  has,  I,  they,  etc. ,  are  called  light 
endings  endings,  while  still  less  significant  words,  such 
as  and,  for,  in,  if,  or,  etc.,  are  called  weak  endings.  The 
latter  are  more  "  fugitive  in  character,"  and  both  so  tend 
to  precipitate  the  reader  forward  that  there  is  no  possible 
chance  to  pause  after  it,  but  the  ear  must  hurry  on  into 
the  next  line  to  find  a  caesura  to  rest  upon.  Such  lines 
as  the  following  are  typical : 

"  '  It  sounds  no  more  ;  and  sure  it  waits  upon 

Some  god  o'  the  Island,"  — "  Tempest,"  i.,  2. 

"  A  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly."  — "  Tempest,"  iv.,  i. 

The  weak  ending  is  very  liable  to  abuse,  and  we  ob- 
serve that  later  poets  employ  it  much  more  sparingly 
than  Shakespeare.1 

1  "  It  should  be  noted  that  commonly  a  pause  occurs  before  the  weak 
final  monosyllable,  after  which  the  verse,  as  it  were,  leaps  forward.  This 
structure,  as  has  been  said,  gives  to  the  verse  something  of  the  bounding 
life  which  Ulysses  describes  Diomed  as  showing  in  the  manner  of  his  gait: 

'  He  rises  on  the  toe  ;  that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth.' 

It  conduces  to  liveliness  and  variety,  and  so  is  hardly  appropriate  to  trag- 
edy of  the  deeper  sort  ;  but  it  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  romantic  drama 
of  Shakspere's  latest  stage,  and  here  alone  it  appears  in  a  conspicuous 
degree." — EDWARD  DOWDEN  :  "  Shakspere  "  (Literature  Primer),  chap, 
iv.,  30. 


240  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

Blank  verse  offers  the  best  medium  for  long-sustained 
themes  because  of  its  nearness  to  prose,  and  because  it 
Blank  verse  does  not  cloy  the  ear  as  long  poems  in  rhymed 

the  best         couplets  or  in  stanzas  are  apt  to  do.     Further- 
medium  for  .  ... 
objective        more,  the  stricter  pause  exactions  of  the  stanza 

poetry  interrupt  the  action  and  the  flow  of  dialogue, 

which  blank  verse  favours. 

Lanier  indeed  claims  that  the  use  of  blank  verse  is  "  an 
attempt  to  escape  from  metre."  Not  so.  For  if  a  writer 
desire  to  escape  from  metre,  he  has  nothing  to  do  but  to 
write  plainly  in  prose;  whereas  the  very  selection  of 
blank  verse  betrays  that  his  fundamental  thought  is 
rhythmic.  Blank  verse  is  not  an  escape  from  metre,  but 
the  use  of  the  largest,  most  elastic,  and  most  universal 
metric  form  we  have. 

We  observe  in  Shakespeare  that,  when  the  tone  of  the 
drama  is  lowered — as  by  the  introduction  of  a  comic,  or 
a  colloquial  element — the  movement  drops  into  periods 
of  prose,  resuming  verse  with  the  deepening  of  the  artis- 
tic emotion.  The  demarcation  is  as  sharp  as  if  cut  with 
a  knife;  there  is  never  a  syllable's  confusion. 

"  For  "  (says  Mr.  A.  J.  Ellis),  "  as  Dionysius  and  Cicero 
well  put  it,  verse  is  in  rhythm,  and  prose  is  merely 
rhythmical ;  that  is,  verse  follows  a  conscious  and  mainly 
enunciable  law  in  the  juxtaposition  of  syllables  of  differ- 
ent kinds,  and  prose  follows  a  subjective,  and  mainly 
non-enunciable  feeling." 

I  know  of  no  better  way  for  the  student  of  verse  to 
obtain  a  mastery  of  blank  verse  technique  than  by  mem- 
orising a  great  number  of  notable  passages,  and  saturat- 
ing himself,  as  it  were,  with  the  cadences,  so  that  they 
become  a  part  of  him.  For  objective  art  is  an  esoteric 
art,  an  art  of  the  chosen  few,  only  to  be  learned  by  long 
apprenticeship  and  the  finest  of  perception. 


HEROICS  241 

Carlyle  defines  poetry  as  "  the  heroic  of  speech."  This 
is  certainly  a  true  definition  of  blank  verse;  for,  if  heroic 
subjects  demand  a  heroic  medium,  so  does  the  heroic 
medium  demand  a  heroic  subject.  It  is  not  suited  to 
lyric  expression  and  should  never  be  used  for  it.  A 
short  chop  of  blank  verse  does  not  constitute  a  poem. 
To  comprehend  the  scope  of  its  modulations  we  require 
to  get  it  in  the  mass;  exactly  as  the  effect  of  a  great 
orchestral  composition  could  not  be  obtained  by  hearing 
fragments  from  two  or  three  instruments,  but  only  from 
the  rounded  volume  of  the  full  orchestra. 

Objective  art  demands  of  the  poet,  not  only  metrical 
skill  of  the  highest  order,  but  also  a  great  shaping  or 
Objective  art  constructive  faculty,  as  well  as  a  consummate 
demands  of  sense  of  proportion.  He  must  bring  to  his 

the  poet  the 

architectonic  work,  not  only  the  finest  conception  of  art, 
faculty  |Dut  an  universal  perception  of  men  and  things, 
and  of  their  eternal  relations.  For  it  is  only  when  a  man 
becomes  merged  in  the  universal,  and  creates  outside  of 
himself — steps  from  the  leading-strings  of  the  personal 
into  the  illimitability  of  the  impersonal — that  the  canvas 
of  life  truly  unrolls  beneath  his  hands;  and  only  then, 
when  he  has  power  to  create  action  wedded  to  propor- 
tion, is  in  fact  an  intrinsic  artist.  This  is  the  quality 
which  Matthew  Arnold,  borrowing  the  term  from  the 
Germans,  designates  as  the  architectonic  faculty ;  and  by 
the  canons  of  the  architectonic  Time  ruthlessly  sits  in 
judgment  upon  all  art.  Only  as  it  is  structurally  great 
shall  it  endure. 
16 


CHAPTER   VII 

BEAUTY   AND   POWER 

THERE  seems  at  the  present  day  to  be  a  largely  preva- 
lent idea  to  the  effect  that  originality  and  development 
what  is  in  art — all  forms  of  art — consist  in  the  despis- 
form?  jng^  often  the  outraging,  of  form.  But  what 

is  form  ?  Is  it  not  expression  per  se ;  the  reduction  of 
the  abstract  to  the  concrete  ?  Can  anything  tangible 
exist  without  form  ? 

The  progress  of  human  thought  has  been  a  unifying 

process.     Investigation  on  all  sides  proves  to  us  not  so 

.    much  that  there  are  laws  as  that  there  is  law. 

The  unity  of 

fundamental  The  scientist  to-day  postulates  life  in  all  its 
manifestations  as  molecular  motion;  the  meta- 
physician postulates  thought  as  molecular  motion.  Mo- 
lecular motion  is,  in  another  word,  vibration,  and  vibra- 
tion we  have  seen  to  be  the  basis  of  the  two  highest 
expressions  of  human  thought — poetry  and  music.  Sci- 
ence teaches  us  further  that  the  forces  of  nature  can 
interchange.  Colours  turn  to  sound ;  sound  again  to 
form.  If  we  attach  a  delicate  pencil  to  the  wires  of 
a  pianoforte,  place  the  point  in  contact  with  a  prepared 
paper,  and  then  strike  major  chords  upon  the  keyboard, 
we  shall  find  the  vibrations  of  the  harmonies  transferred 
to  the  paper  in  loveliest  geometric  and  decorative  de- 
signs. This  ratiocination  brings  us  round  in  a  circle, 
and  demonstrates  that  between  science  and  art  there  is 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  243 

no  real  base  of  conflict;  because  they  are  in  fact  only 
different  projections  of  one  central  cause. 

When  we  turn  to  nature  for  hints  we  find  the  inevit- 
able procession  of  law  and  order,  whether  we  consider 
the  orbits  of  the  planets,  the  sequence  of  day  and  night, 
the  changes  of  the  sidereal  year,  or  contemplate  the  mar- 
vellously packed  crystals  of  a  geode,  or  the  delicately 
balanced  petals  and  sepals  of  a  flower.  There  is  no  hap- 
hazard about  it  all.  Crystals  fall  always  into  the  same 
geometric  patterns.  Plants  produce  bud  and  bloom,  and 
perfect  their  seed,  each  after  its  kind,  always  in  the  same 
way.  There  is  unity  throughout  creation;  everywhere 
we  find  the  order  and  balance  without  which  nothing,  not 
even  the  universe,  could  exist  at  all. 

"  In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heaven  and  the 
earth.  And  the  earth  was  without  form  and  void ;  and 
darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep :  and  the  spirit 
of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters." 

Over  the  inconceivableness  of  chaos  moved  the  in- 
spiration of  divine  thought,  evolving  therefrom  the  con- 
Form  the  ceivable — organisation,  measure,  proportion, 
law  of  symmetry,  coordination  ;  in  another  word 

expression        ^^ 

Form,  then,  is  merely  the  law  of  expression. 

What  we  find  true  of  nature  is  equally  so  of  art ;  for 
nature  and  art  are  basically  alike  in  that  they  are  form 
infused  with  life.  What  we  call  nature  is  the  direct  cre- 
ation of  Deity;  what  we  call  art  is  the  indirect  creation 
of  Deity — nature  sifted  through  the  consciousness  of 
man.  Nature  is  creation  upon  the  lines  of,  and  in  har- 
mony with,  great  fundamental  laws.  Art  too  must  be 
upon  the  lines  of,  and  in  harmony  with,  great  fundamen- 
tal laws,  or  it  will  not  be  true  art;  for  the  laws  them- 
selves are  an  integral  part  of  the  creation. 


244  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS  OF  VERSE 

Form  being  the  law  of  expression,  we  cannot  then,  if 
we  are  to  express  ourselves  at  all,  escape  the  use  of  form ; 
Form  an  we  can  only  choose  between  a  good  form  and 

palToTthe  a  ^a<^  f°rm>  a  l°wer  f°rm  anci  a  higher  form, 
creation  a  beautiful  form  and  an  ugly  form,  an  adapted 
form  and  an  uncouth  or  incongruous  form.  Great  art  is 
achieved,  not  by  disobedience  to  and  outraging  of  law, 
but  by  inflection  and  variation  within  the  lines  of  the 
law.  With  the  masters  of  poetic  art  this  use  of  form 
becomes  in  a  manner  self-selective ;  for  of  course  the  true 
artist  does  not  primarily  take  cognisance  of  his  mechan- 
ism as  he  works.  He  is  already  master  of  his  tools — 
a  skilled  craftsman ;  but  it  is  exactly  by  reason  of,  and 
in  proportion  to,  this  mastery — so  fixed  in  the  subcon- 
sciousness  that  it  has  become  an  instinctive  factor  of  ex- 
pression— that  he  may  in  a  sense  ignore  detail.  It  is  the 
lesser  craftsman  who  is  ever  conscious  of  his  tools,  and 
must  be  forever  at  his  measuring  and  grinding. 

"  Form,"  says  Eckermann  ("  Beitrage  zur  Poesie  "  *), 
"  is  the  result  of  the  efforts,  through  thousands  of  years, 
of  the  most  excellent  masters,  which  everyone  cannot  too 
soon  appropriate  to  himself.  It  were  a  most  insane  de- 
lusion of  misconceived  originality  if  each  one  were  to  go 
about  on  his  own  account  fumbling  for  that  which  is 
already  on  hand  in  great  perfection.  Form  is  handed 
down,  learned,  imitated;  otherwise  progress  in  art  would 
be  out  of  the  question, — everyone  would  have  to  begin 
anew."  As  a  corollary  to  the  above  we  may  quote  the 
words  of  Robert  Schumann,  a  critic  of  great  acumen  not 
only  of  his  own  art,  but  of  its  sister  art.  '  The  history 
of  all  arts  and  artists  has  proven  that  mastery  of  form 
leads  talent  to  continually  increasing  freedom." 

"  The  writer  of  verse  is  afraid  of  having  too  much 
1  See  "  Theory  and  Practice  of  Musical  Form,"  by  J.  H.  Cornell. 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  245 

form,  of  having  too  much  technic ;  he  dreads  it  will  inter- 
fere with  his  spontaneity.  No  more  decisive  confession 
of  weakness  can  be  made.  It  is  only  cleverness  and 
small  talent  which  is  afraid  of  its  spontaneity;  the  genius, 
the  great  artist,  is  forever  ravenous  after  new  forms,  after 
technic;  he  will  follow  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  if 
you  will  enlarge  his  artistic  science."  1 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  has  epitomised  the  fore- 
going ideas  in  a  notable  passage  of  "  Aurora  Leigh  ": 

"  Without  the  spiritual,  observe, 
The  natural's  impossible; — no  form, 
No  motion  !  Without  sensuous,  spiritual 
Is  inappreciable  : — no  beauty  or  power  ! 
And  in  this  twofold  sphere  the  twofold  man 
(And  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a  man) 
Holds  firmly  by  the  natural,  to  reach 
The  spiritual  beyond  it, — fixes  still 
The  type  with  mortal  vision,  to  pierce  through, 
With  eyes  immortal,  to  the  antetype 
Some  call  the  ideal, — " 

Every  age  has  had  its  generic  art-form ;  that  by  which 
its  individual  thought  and  aspiration  can  best  be  ex- 
Everyage  pressed  and  made  concrete.  These  reflect  not 
genehHcart=  only  contemporary  manners,  but  reveal  the 
form  spiritual  development  of  their  epoch.  They 

are  organic  forms  of  genius ;  and  the  high  achievements 
of  one  age  or  race  cannot  be  consummated  by  another 
age  or  race.  Thus  the  distinctive  art-form  of  Greece 
was  sculpture.  The  fervid  religious  thought  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  found  its  expression  in  the  Scripture  of  Stone 
— architecture;  an  architecture  the  most  soaring  and 
ideal,  which  we  endeavour  to-day  to  imitate  but  whose 
1  SIDNEY  LANIER  :  "  The  English  Novel,"  chap.  ii. 


246  THE  MUSICAL   BASIS   OF  VERSE 

informing  spirit  we  cannot  catch.  The  Art-form  of  the 
Renaissance  was  painting;  and  the  restless,  inquiring, 
aspiring  modern  world  pours  its  soul  out  in  music. 

But  close  along  with  the  other  arts,  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der, moves  also  and  always  literature,  the  perennial  and 
Literature  universal  art-form.  Thus,  beside  Phidias  and 
theuniver-  Praxiteles,  we  find  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  Eu- 
sai  art-form  <  jn  ^g  Renaissance,  with  her  great 


painters,  Italy  had  her  Dante,  her  Petrarch,  her  Ariosto, 
her  Tasso  ;  and  in  the  great  world  of  modern  music,  we 
have  a  Goethe,  a  Victor  Hugo,  a  Pushkin,  a  Robert 
Browning. 

In  an  interesting  work  by  Wilhelm  August  Ambros 
(translated  by  J.  H.  Cornell),  called  "  The  Boundaries  of 
Comparison  Music  and  Poetry,  "  there  is  a  synthetic  com- 
ofart-forms  pariSOn  of  the  different  arts,  graduated  by  the 
relative  resistance  to  the  idea  of  the  medium  employed. 
Thus,  of  the  fine  arts,  architecture  stands  at  the  bottom 
of  the  scale,  because  in  it  there  is  the  greatest  resistance 
of  crude  material,  and  also  because  it  is  the  art  least  in- 
dividually expressive  of  the  conceiving  artist.  A  Greek 
temple  is  a  Greek  temple,  a  Gothic  cathedral  a  Gothic 
cathedral.  The  monument  survives  its  creator,  —  sur- 
vives as  a  type  and  not  as  an  individuation.  Sculpture 
resembles  architecture  in  the  element  of  crude  material 
to  be  overcome,  but  greatly  transcends  it  in  the  power 
of  the  artist  for  individual  expression.  Yet  here  also  he 
is  necessarily  limited  by  material  conditions;  and  while 
of  ancient  masterpieces  a  few  have  reached  us  labelled, 
a  thousand  others  have  nothing  individually  distinguish- 
able, and  may  be  only  uncertainly  classed  with  special 
art-epochs.  When  we  come  to  painting,  we  find  the 
artist  greatly  freed  of  his  crude  material,  and  able  to  ex- 
press the  personal  ideal  to  a  very  great  degree.  Thus 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  247 

the  works  of  Cimabue,  Fra  Angelico,  Raphael,  Michael 
Angelo,  Titian,  Correggio,  etc.,  are  so  distinct  from  each 
other,  and  so  instinct  with  the  personal  bias  of  the  cre- 
ative artist,  that  it  would  not  be  possible  for  the  trained 
observer  ever  to  mistake  one  for  the  other.  In  poetry 
the  resistance  of  crude  material  is  virtually  nil.  It,  of  all 
the  arts,  permits  the  closest  and  most  direct  following  of 
the  abstract  concept  by  its  concrete  expression.  There- 
fore is  poetry  the  freest  and  most  disembodied,  as  well 
as  the  most  personal,  of  all  the  arts. 

And  how  shall  we  define  Hie  larger  of  the  Arts  of 
Sound,  the  at  once  most  intangible  yet  most  scientific  of 
Music  as  an  the  arts, — music  ?  Upon  its  concrete  or  sci- 
?a^ks°rm  entific  side  the  art  of  music  is  superlatively 
definiteness  complex.  Constructively  it  resembles  archi- 
tecture,1 being  composed  of  related  strata  of  sound  (if 
I  may  use  so  material  a  term),  each  conditioned  to,  and 
built  into,  others,  in  accordance  with  complex  physical 
laws.  Therefore,  of  all  the  arts,  it  is  next  to  architecture 
and  the  most  architectonic.  Yet,  essentially,  upon  its 
psychic  side,  music  is  the  very  freest  medium  of  which 
we  have  cognisance.  It  is  spiritualised  sound  and  mo- 
tion. It  transcends  speech.  It  flies  upon  the  wings  of 
the  morning;  it  throbs  in  the  abysses  of  night.  It  links 
heart  to  heart,  and  sphere  to  sphere,  and  the  heights  and 
depths  of  man's  being  awaken  and  respond.  Yet,  finally, 
music  lacks  definiteness.  Something  more  we  have  to 
express  to  each  other  for  which  articulate  speech  alone 
serves;  nay,  music  must  turn  to  articulate  speech  to 
define  its  very  own  inwardness;  for  music,  by  what  Mr. 
Huneker  defines  as  an  "  immediate  appeal  to  the  nerve- 

1  The  famous  apothegm  "Architecture  is  frozen  music" — Schlegel's, 
I  believe,  though  frequently  attributed  to  Mme.  de  Stael — will  readily 
recur  to  the  memory. 


248  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

centres/'  awakens  feelings  rather  than  ideas.  This  is 
because  sound  plays  upon  human  emotion  without  regu- 
lating it.  It  is  the  thought  of  the  listener  which  regu- 
lates; and,  for  the  definite  thought  of  one  mind  to  be 
conveyed  to  another  (i.e.  performer  and  listener),  words 
must  intervene.  Words  must  formulate  the  ideas  which 
music  desires  to  promulgate;  for  music,  with  all  its 
wings,  is  not  capable  of  producing  before  the  mind  a 
definite  and  fixed  image.  In  all  programme-music — 
which  deals  ostensibly  with  definite  imagery — the  idea 
Words  which  the  music  is  to  express  is  explained  by 

finally  words ;    either  by  definitions   of  the  separate 

parts— as  in  Beethoven's  "  Pastoral  Sym- 
phony," Spohr's  symphony,  '  The  Consecration  of 
Sound,"  1  and  kindred  works;  or,  in  the  freer  forms  now 
in  vogue,  the  poem  from  which  the  composer  drew  his 
inspirational  thought  is  prefixed  to  the  score,  and  usually 
printed  in  the  concert  programme.  Such  are  Raff's 
"  Lenore,"  Cesar  Franck's  "  Les  Bolides,"  Richard 
Strauss's  "  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra,"  etc. 
In  short, 

"  Music  is  Love  in  search  of  a  Word," 

only  for  love  read  spirit. 

Theassocia-        There  is   an   immense   associative  power  in 

tive  power     words ;  and  herein  lies  the  virtue  of  the  trope. 

Words  do  not  stand  isolated  in  the  mental 

chambers,  but  are  so  much  a  part  of  special  trains  of 

' '  Die  Weihe  der  Tone  '  has  generally  been  accounted  Spohr's  most 
successful  symphony.  The  sub-title  of  the  score  is  '  A  Characteristic 
Tone-Painting  in  the  Form  of  a  Symphony,  after  a  poem  by  Carl  Pfeiffer.' 
On  a  fly-leaf  of  the  score  is  printed  a  '  Pre-reminder  by  the  Composer,'  to 
the  effect  that  he  wishes  the  poem  to  be  printed  on  concert-programs  and 
distributed  among  the  audience." — WILLIAM  F.  APTHORP  :  "Symphony 
Notes,"  1900. 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  249 

thought  that  the  use  of  a  word,  or  a  group  of  words,  will 
call  up,  not  only  the  direct  image  which  it  stands  for, 
but  a  dozen  associated  images  which  the  mind  ever  holds, 
as  it  were,  in  solution. 

When  we  consider  what  language  is,  that  it  is  not  an 
invention  but  an  organic  growth,  and  that  every  word  is 
a  sound-vibration  closely  related  to  its  thought-vibration, 
we  shall  realise  that,  instead  of  being  accidental  or  arbi- 
trary figures,  words  are  living  forces;  the  more  dynamic, 
the  more  closely  they  are  correlated  to  their  thought; 
for  words  are  energised  by  thought.  This  is  why  words 
of  conventional  meaning,  used  by  the  artificial  manufac- 
turers of  so-called  literature,  never  move  us;  there  is  no 
living  force  behind  them. 

Figures  and  tropes  play  a  great  part  in  all  literary  ex- 
pression, but  they  are  the  very  sinew  of  poetry.  One 
could  not  in  fact  conceive  of  poetry  without 

The  trope  .  , 

the  trope;  it  would  be  but  metric  dry  bones; 
for  the  trope  is  thought  idealised.  We  can  hardly  use 
every-day  speech  without  an  infusion  of  imagery,  for 
adjectives  are  in  themselves  a  simple  form  of  trope. 
We  should  indeed  not  get  a  definite  image  of  the  object 
named  by  the  substantive  without  the  qualifying  sugges- 
tiveness  of  the  adjective.  The  more  unusual,  or  un- 
usually apt  and  descriptive  the  adjective,  the  more  vivid 
the  image  which  it  calls  up.  Mr.  Kipling's  adjectives, 
for  instance,  are  often  simply  dynamic,  and  put  before 
one  a  whole  picture,  as  it  were,  by  a  lightning  flash.  It 
is,  however,  very  easy,  working  upon  these  lines,  to  slip 
over  the  borders  of  true  art  into  the  slough  of  mere 
impressionism. 

The  trope1  is  the  figurative  use  of  a  word,  or  of  words, 
in  some  meaning  other  than  the  normal  one.  It  is  lit- 

1  Greek  :  trofios,  from  trepo,  turn. 


250  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

erally  a  turning  out  of  the  direct  course  of  language  in 
order  to  express  the  thought  in  some  more  vivid  manner. 
The  poet  makes  by  this  means  a  more  swift  and  definite 
impression  upon  the  mind  than  can  be  achieved  by  direct 
description.  Thus  Wordsworth  says : 

"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer's  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket. ' ' 

And  we  have  a  more  vivid  picture  than  if  he  had  said : 
'  The  good  die  first,  and  those  who  have  no  emotions  or 
sympathies  live  to  a  good  old  age." 

So  when  the  guilty  and  excited  Macbeth  cries  out: 

"  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  '  Sleep  no  more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murther  sleep  ! '  " 

we  get  an  infinitely  deeper  sense  of  the  horror  of  the 
situation  than  if  he  had  said: 

"  Macbeth  has  slain  his  guest  in  sleep,  therefore  he 
himself  shall  never  again  find  rest." 

And  when  Gloster  exclaims: 

"  See  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death  !  " 

what  a  picture  is  painted  for  us  by  a  single  word ! 

The  trope  belongs  to  the  domain  of  rhetoric,  and  does 
not  in  any  way  affect  metrical  laws ;  therefore  this  is  no 
Meta  hor  P^ace  to  enter  in  detail  into  its  qualities  and 
functions.  But  I  will  state  briefly  that  tropes 
are  of  two  general  classes:  the  direct  compared  image, 
or  metaphor,  and  the  indirect  compared  image,  or  simile. 
In  the  metaphor  one  thing  is -directly  called  another. 
Thus: 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  251 

"  When  I  will  wear  a  garment  all  of  blood 
And  stain  my  favour  in  a  bloody  mask, 
Which,  wash'd  away,  shall  scour  my  shame  with  it." 
—  SHAKESPEARE  :  First  part  of  "  Henry  IV.,"  iii.,  2. 

"  Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometimes  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd  ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade." 

—  SHAKESPEARE  :  Sonnet  XVIII. 

"  Elegies 

And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words-long 
That  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  forever." 

—  TENNYSON  :  "  The  Princess." 

"  Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died." 

—KEATS  :  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 


simile  one  thing  is  compared  with 

another,  both  being  presented   or  sometimes 
one  being  only  implied.     Thus: 

"  The  barge 

Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night." 

—TENNYSON  :  "  Elaine." 

"  I  saw  young  Harry,  with  his  beaver  on, 
His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  armed, 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather'  d  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds, 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship." 
—  SHAKESPEARE  :  First  part  of  "  Henry  IV.,"  iv.,  i. 


252  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

"  As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 
Of  Ternate  and  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs :  they  on  the  trading  flood 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape 
Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  pole  :  so  seem'd 
Far  off  the  flying  fiend." 

— MILTON:  "  Paradise  Lost,"  book  ii. 

"  O  Spartan  dog, 
More  fell  than  anguish,  hunger,  or  the  sea  !  " 

— SHAKESPEARE:  "  Othello,"  v.,  2. 

Metaphors  and  similes  will  often  be  found  intermingled 
in  the  same  passage;  as  in  the  quotation  from  Henry  IV. 
just  above,  "  I  saw  young  Harry,"  etc. 

The  metaphor  being  the  more  concentrated  image  is 
the  more  swift  and  dynamic.  The  simile  is  a  more  dif- 
fuse image,  and  carries  its  point  of  comparison  by  weight, 
rather  than  by  swiftness,  of  evidence.  The  simile  is  of 
oriental,  the  metaphor  of  occidental,  origin. 

.         A  beautiful  and  forceful  form  of  metaphor 

1  he  personi=» 

ficationof       is  found  in  the  personification  of  nature  or  of 
natural  and  impersonal  phenomena.     Thus : 

"  Now  morn,  her  rosy  steps  in  the  eastern  clime 
Advancing,  sowed  the  earth  with  orient  pearl." 

— MILTON  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  book  v. 

"  Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !     How  he  sets  his  bones 
To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth ;  " 

— BROWNING  :  "  James  Lee's  Wife." 

This  form  expanded  becomes  Allegory. 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  253 

Both  metaphor  and  simile  permit  of  many  variants  and 
have  suffered  technically  much  subdivision,  each  division 
being  named  after  its  kind.  They  may  be  studied  in  the 
standard  treatises  on  rhetoric. 

The  abuse  or  overloading  of  diction  with  tropes  is 
perilously  easy.  One  needs  but  to  compare  the  lovely 
and  living  imagery  of  Shakespeare  with  the  overdrawn, 
artificial,  and  cloying  conceits  which  prevailed  after- 
wards. 

But  there  is  connotative  potency  in  the  direct  use  of 
language  as  well  as  in  the  figurative.  What  we  might 
The  onder-  ca^  t^ie  Pon^rable  quality  of  words  greatly  in- 
abie  value  fluences  their  suggestive  value.  Thus  mono- 
syllables are  terse,  incisive,  dynamic,  and  are 
used  by  the  masters  of  verse  where  vigor  and  virility,  or 
sometimes  where  mere  brute  power,  are  to  be  conveyed. 
The  following  line  from  Milton,  by  the  succession  of 
heavy,  almost  crude,  monosyllables,  presents  a  more 
forceful  image  of  naked  dreariness  than  could  possibly 
be  obtained  by  any  interspersion  of  longer  words.  This 
is  a  noticeable  point  in  Milton,  who  was  prone  to  sono- 
rous diction,  and  evidences  surely  how,  with  the  masters 
of  verse,  the  choice  of  words  is  no  accident  but  an  abso- 
lute instinct  for  fitness. 

"  Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of  death," 

The  foregoing  remarks  are  equally  applicable  to  the 
suggestive  force  of  this  line  from  "  Hamlet."  The  suc- 
cession of  short,  weighted  words  are  the  direct  embodi- 
ment of  the  heavy  thought. 

"  Thoughts  black,  hands  apt,  drugs  fit,  and  time  agreeing," 

And  what  could  better  delineate  the  sharp,  mad  agony 
of  Lear  than  these  sharp,  hard  monosyllables  ? 


254  THE   MUSICAL  BASIS    OF  VERSE 

"  Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl  !     O,  you  are  men  of  stone  ! 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes  I'd  use  them  so 
That  heaven's  vault  should  crack." 

Monosyllables  have  a  staccato  effect,  and,  long  per- 
sisted in,  leave  upon  the  ear  a  strong  impression  of 
harshness  and  roughness. 

The  general  characteristic  of  the  dissyllable  with  fem- 
inine cadence1  (i.e.  with  accent  on  the  first  syllable)  is 
suavity.  It  links  together  rougher  strokes,  and  blends 
the  line  into  melodious  flow.  Its  use  is  conspicuous  in 
those  poets  whose  predominant  characteristic  is  melody. 

I  give  two  illustrative  lines  from  Keats,  and  two  from 
Tennyson. 

"  The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed," 
"  Thea,  Thea,  Thea,  where  is  Saturn  ?  " 

"  Lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledged  with  music  :  " 

"  And  freedom  slowly  broadens  down." 

Polysyllables  impart  to  verse  sonority,  stateliness,  dig- 
nity, elevation.  Witness  the  abundant  use  of  them  by 
poets  in  whom  a  sense  of  these  qualities  predominates. 
I  give  two  examples  from  Milton  and  two  from  Words- 
worth. 

"  Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallambrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades 
High  over-arch'd  imbower." 

1  Because  the  general  effect  of  dissyllables  with  masculine  cadence  is 
practically  identical  with  that  of  monosyllables. 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  255 

"  The  Stygian  Council  thus  dissolved,  and  forth 
In  order  came  the  grand  infernal  peers ; 
Midst  came  their  mighty  paramount,  and  seem'd 
Alone  the  antagonist  of  heaven,  nor  less 
Than  Hell's  dread  emperour," 

"  Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour ! 
Not  dull  art  thou  as  undiscerning  Night; 
But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 
Day's  mutable  distinctions." 

"  Near 

The  solid  mountain  shone,  bright  as  the  cloud, 
Grain-tinctured,  drenched  in  empyrean  light." 

Not  a  little  in  the  nice  distribution  of  words  of  dif- 
ferent ponderable  values — each  absolutely  placed  and 
adapted,  each  conveying  the  definite  impression  intended 
— is  the  great  art  of  the  great  artist  evidenced. 

It  is  this  marshalling  of  the  forces  of  words — differently 
marshalled  by  different  hands — which  constitutes  what 
Apropos  we  designate  as  style.  Individuality  of  style  is 
of  style  a  subtle  quality  not  easy  to  define,  but  very 
conclusively  apprehended.  Thus  Shakespeare's  style, 
Milton's  style,  Keats's  style,  Browning's  style,  etc.,  are 
as  organically  native,  as  unconfusable,  and  as  uncom- 
municable  as  possible. 

While  poetry  deals  much  more  with  hyperbole  than 
prose,  and  employs  many  syntactical  inversions  not  per- 
Professor  missible  in  prose,  the  fundamental  elements  of 
Wendell's  good  writing  are  the  same  in  both  literary 
fundamental  forms.  Professor  Barrett  Wendell,  in  his  mas- 
groups  terly  little  book  on  English  Composition, 
places  these  elements  very  succinctly  before  us  in  three 
groups;  viz. :  the  intellectual,  or  quality  of  clearness ;  the 


256  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

emotional,  or  quality  of  force ;  and  the  aesthetic,  or  qual- 
ity of  elegance — beauty. 

The  secret  of  clearness  lies  in  denotation,  or  the  direct 
statement.  The  writer  must  have  a  definite  conception 
The  secret  of  that  which  he  wishes  to  say,  and  express  it 
of  clearness  jn  suc\l  language  that  others  shall  as  definitely 
perceive  it.  Vagueness  and  obscurity  of  expression  are 
to  be  avoided.  True  art  is  deep  as  a  well  and  clear  as 
crystal.  Occasional  ridicule  has  been  excited  by  the 
homeliness  of  Wordsworth's  diction,  and  some  of  his 
poems  are  indeed  suggestive  of  the  schoolboy's  com- 
position ;  but  this  is  due  to  the  poet's  fixed  theory  that 
one  should  compose  whether  the  fountain  of  inspiration 
be  playing  or  not,  and  the  pieces  in  question  certainly 
took  shape  upon  the  dry  days.  In  his  times  of  elevation 
and  inspiration,  the  directness  and  simplicity  of  Words- 
worth's diction  become  a  powerful  instrument  of  expres- 
sion. We  are  sometimes  tempted  to  wish  that  some  of 
Browning's  work  could  receive  an  infusion  of  the  same 
clarifying  element. 

The  emotional  element  of  style  is  force,  and  in  all 
forms  of  literature  this  is  the  quality  which  holds  the 
The  secret  attention.  It  is  of  course  the  power  to  put  the 
of  force  sense  or  image  of  the  thing  or  things  treated 
vividly  before  the  mind  of  the  reader;  and  it  is  in  conno- 
tation,  or  that  which  is  implied  or  suggested  rather  than 
definitely  stated,  that  the  secret  of  force  lies.  This  is 
because  the  suggested  idea  fires  trains  of  thought  in  the 
imagination  and  permits  it  to  construct  a  cosmos  out 
of  a  granule.  It  becomes  evident  that  this  division  is 
the  field  of  the  trope. 

Yet  should  the  ultimate  power  be  kept  in  reserve,  and 
only  exerted  at  focal  moments,  lest  the  impression  pro- 
duced be  of  the  exhaustion  of  resource. 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  257 

"  In  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say,  the 
whirlwind  of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  tem- 
perance that  may  give  it  smoothness,"  Hamlet  exhorts 
the  players. 

Clearness  should  of  course  always  underlie  force. 

In  adaptation  lies  the  secret  of  beauty.  This  is  only 
another  way  of  defining  that  which  we  have  more  than 
The  secret  once  stated  in  these  pages;  viz. :  that  the  lit- 
of  beauty  erary  form  must  be  such  as  to  express  most 
concretely  the  thought  of  the  creating  artist.  Says  Pro- 
fessor Wendell: 

"  The  more  exquisitely  style  is  adapted  to  the  thought 
it  symbolises,  the  better  we  can  make  our  works  and 
compositions  denote  and  connote  in  other  human  minds 
the  meaning  they  denote  and  connote  in  ours,  the  greater 
charm  style  will  have,  merely  as  a  work  of  art."  * 

The  study  of  great  works  of  art  shows  them  to  be  fin- 
ished and  proportioned,  but  full  of  underlying  strength. 
Power  is  not  attained  either  by  brutality  or  by  extrava- 
gance of  diction,  but  by  an  art  which  is  masterly,  because 
technically  finished  and  proportioned.  To  the  student 
of  poetry  I  would  say:  study  intelligently;  write  copi- 
ously; prune  drastically;  and  above  all  be  not  in  haste 
to  rush  into  print,  for  this  evidences  rather  a  desire  for 
cheap  notoriety  than  a  strong  art  feeling.  True  art  is 
always  characterised  by  restraint. 

"  I  hung  my  verses  in  the  wind, 
Time  and  tide  their  faults  may  find ; 
All  were  winnowed  through  and  through, 
Five  lines  lasted  sound  and  true." 

A  poem  should  always  be  measured  to  the  dimensions 
of  its  informing  idea.  If  it  be  longer  than  its  idea  it  will 

1  "  English  Composition,"  chap.  viii.         "EMERSON  :  "  The  Test." 
17 


258  THE   MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

descend  into  mere  verbiage;  but  neither  should  it  be  so 
contracted  as  to  leave  room  for  no  ideas.  Although  the 
voice  of  the  day  seems  to  be  for  it,  an  epigram  is  not 
a  poem. 

But  when  all  is  said  and  done  about  the  manner  of  the 
verse,  it  is  of  course  the  genius  of  the  poet,  the  creative 
The  creative  soul,  which  infuses  the  form  with  life  and  ren- 
soui  ders  it  not  an  agglomeration  of  words  and  sen- 

tences, but  a  potentiality.  Back  of  the  archetype  must 
be  the  informing  idea,  the  essential  element  which  gives 
it  being — the  burning,  palpitating,  eternal  current  which 
links  all  causes  with  all  expression.  Genius  touches  the 
every-day,  the  familiar,  the  common,  and  lifts  it  into  the 
realm  of  the  ideal,  so  that  it  takes  on  for  us  a  new  sig- 
nificance and  a  new  beauty.  What  genius  is  no  man 
rightly  knows.  Probably  the  possessor  of  it  would  sub- 
scribe to  Emerson's  postulate  that  it  is  a  "  greater  infu- 
sion of  deity;  "  for  he  knows  that  that  which  he  creates 
is  not  of  himself  but  flows  through  him  from  some  deeper 
reservoir.  '  We  do  not  take  possession  of  our  ideas,  but 
are  possessed  by  them,"  says  Heine.  The  most  compre- 
hensive definition  of  genius  which  I  know  is  one  given 
by  Miss  Sheppard  in  "  Counterparts."  "  Genius  is  that 
essence  which  alone  assimilates  with  the  unseen ;  which 
passes  into  the  arcana  of  knowledge  as  a  part  of  itself, 
and  that  without  preparation,  education  or  experience." 

A  great  deal  passes  for  genius  which  is  nothing  higher 
than  well-trained  talent — tricks  of  mere  cleverness.  But 
literature,  like  water,  will  rise  to  its  own  level,  and  no 
higher.  Genius  is  a  compulsive  force,  no  more  to  be 
restrained  than  is  the  mountain  torrent.  We  are  obliged 
to  say  with  Owen  Meredith : 

"  Genius  is  master  of  man ; 
Genius  does  what  it  must,  talent  uoes  what  it  can." 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  259 

Within  the  hand  of  genius  lies  that  talisman  of  fire 
which  makes  thought  candent  at  the  core  and  casts  it  into 
inevitable  shapes  of  passion  and  power. 

Beauty  and  power  are  the  keys  to  art. 

It  is  not  possible,  as  some  have  tried  to  do,  to  define 
power  as  the  subjective  element,  or  soul,  and  beauty  as 
Beauty  and  the  objective  element,  or  body,  of  art,  because 
tnrkeylto  both  qualities  are  attributes  of  the  informing 
art  spirit  as  well  as  of  its  expression.  Power, 

shorn  of  beauty,  is  but  elemental  force;  beauty,  shorn 
of  power,  is  mere  sensuousness.  True  art  therefore  is 
a  synthetic  union  of  the  concrete  with  the  abstract. 

In  a  way  beauty  is  of  itself  a  power;  one  of  the  strongest 
which  can  sway  us.  It  is  by  virtue  of  his  beauty — his 
glowing  workmanship,  his  rich  and  transporting  melody, 
his  superlative  imagery — and  not  by  the  ethical  value  of 
his  long-drawn  allegory  that  Spenser  endures  to-day.  It 
is  by  the  same  virtue  that  Keats  lives,  and  will  live  as  long 
as  appreciation  for  literary  perfection  survives.  And  the 
secret  of  Shelley's  ethereal  charm  lies  in  his  passionate 
love  of  the  beautiful,  and  his  equally  burning  desire  to 
transmute  all  life  and  all  experience  into  beauty. 

Beauty  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of  art — by  beauty 
meaning  that  art  which  is  intrinsically  and  extrinsically 
proportioned — and  without  beauty  there  could  be  no  art. 
Ugliness  is  untrue  to  art.  All  distortion  is  ugliness — 
untruth — and  therefore  not  art.  Amorphousness  is  not 
art,  cacophony  is  not  art,  naked  realism  unillumined  by 
the  fires  of  the  imagination  is  not  art,  nor  yet  is  extrava- 
gance, nor  anything  which  depends  upon  sensational 
effects.  Art  is  that  sublime  union  of  the  concrete  with 
the  abstract  which  makes  always  for  the  elevation  of  the 
soul  of  man ;  otherwise  must  it  be  meretricious  work  and 
not  true  art.  The  sense  of  beauty  may  be  for  a  season 


260  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

obscured,  even  as  vapours  cloud  the  face  of  the  sun,  but 
it  is  inalienable  and  imperishable.  The  desire  for  it— 
for  that  beauty  which  tranquillises,  which  enlarges,  which 
uplifts — is  at  the  core  of  existence.  Consciously  or  un- 
consciously the  soul  of  man  is  always  reaching  forward 
to  more  and  more  sublimated  experience;  and  that  age 
which  feeds  upon  beauty  will  inevitably  rise  above  its 
fellows  both  in  the  conception  of  ideals  and  in  the  exter- 
nalisation  of  their  inspiration. 

The  educational  value  of  poetry  cannot  be  overesti- 
mated. All  forms  of  art  are  "  mediators  between  the 

Theeduca-  sou^  an<^  ^e  In^n^te5  "  but  music  and  poetry, 
tionai  value  from  their  character,  playing  as  they  do  upon 
the  emotional  nature,  are  the  most  powerful. 

Poetry  is  really  less  esoteric  than  music.  It  is  nearer 
the  universal  sympathy  and  more  essentially  compre- 
hensible by  the  general  mind.  Lines  of  beautiful  poetry 
will  live  in  the  memory  like  haunting  strains  of  music, 
wiping  out  the  common  and  the  sordid,  and  at  all  times 
uplifting,  purifying,  tranquillising,  and  inspiring.  Poetry 
has  its  objective  side  which  appeals  to  the  intellect,  and 
its  subjective,  which  appeals  directly  to  the  spirit.  This 
latter  is  a  psychic  process,  and  is  brought  about,  exactly 
as  in  music,  by  virtue  of  the  vibration.  A  thought  cast 
in  rhythmic  form  will  appeal  to  the  spirit  as  the  same 
thought  in  dry  prose  will  not.  It  becomes  a  spear  of 
palpitating  flame,  piercing  the  crust  of  the  understanding 
at  a  blow,  and  penetrating  straight  to  the  heart  of  things. 

The  study  of  poetry  has  fallen  too  much  into  des- 
uetude; has  been  left  to  be  a  recreation  for  a  cultured 
The  love  of  .  few,  when  in  fact  it  ought  to  be  made  mental 

should  be  ^oo<^  ^or  t^le  m^^on-  One  cannot  but  mark 
cultivated  with  regret  the  conspicuous  ignorance  our 
undergraduates — and  our  graduates! — show  with  regard 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  261 

to  the  noblest  masterpieces  of  our  literature;  but  there 
is  opportunity  for  reform.  Some  of  the  time  now  spent 
in  the  acquisition  of  material  knowledge  would  be  well 
devoted  to  developing  a  taste  and  appreciation  for  great 
literature.  We  should  familiarise  our  little  ones  with 
choice  selections  of  simple  verse,  and  train  our  young 
men  and  women  to  live  lovingly  in  the  society  of  the 
great  poets.  One  of  the  faculties  which  awake  earliest 
in  the  child  is  a  feeling  for  rhythmic  motion — dancing, 
marching,  calisthenics,  etc.  When  taught  them,  they 
greatly  enjoy  simple  and  melodious  verses;  and  such, 
becoming  fixed  in  the  memory  at  this  plastic  age,  never 
wholly  lose  their  power.  I  know  of  a  school  whose  prin- 
cipal is  a  lover  of  Shakespeare,  where  little  ones  of  six 
and  seven  take  the  greatest  delight  in  memorising  and 
reciting  little  songs  from  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare — 
"  O  come  unto  these  yellow  sands,"  '  Where  the  bee 
sucks,"  etc.  Can  one  doubt  that  this  is  the  preparation 
for  the  more  mature  and  understanding  love  ?  And 
I  know  of  several  boys'  clubs  in  the  slums  of  different 
cities, — clubs  in  which  a  love  of  noble  literature  has  been 
carefully  inculcated, — where  stultified  lads  of  fourteen  to 
twenty  (hoodlums  is  our  common  name  for  them)  have 
spent  whole  winters  in  studying  and  performing  such 
plays  as  Shakespeare's  "  Julius  Caesar  "  and  "  Merchant 
of  Venice,"  Banim's  "  Damon  and  Pythias,"  etc.  Sta- 
tistics in  these  wards  show  a  great  falling  off  in  juvenile 
crime.  A  few  facts  like  these  speak  for  themselves. 

Teachers  of  the  future  will  realise  that  more  important 
than  the  study  of  physical  sciences  is  the  study  of  life; 
and  life  is  epitomised  in  the  great  literatures  of.  the  world. 
History  shows  us  that  those  ages  which  have  been  domi- 
nated by  great  art-ideals  have  also  been  the  ages  of  the 
greatest  and  noblest  material  achievement.  Emerson 


262  THE  MUSICAL  BASIS  OF  VERSE 

affirms  that  "  sooner  or  later  that  which  is  now  life  shall 
be  poetry,  and  every  fair  and  manly  trait  shall  add  a 
richer  strain  to  the  song."  To  this  we  might  append 
Shelley's  immortal  words:  "  Poetry  is  indeed  something 
divine.  It  is  at  once  the  centre  and  circumference  of 
knowledge;  it  is  that  which  comprehends  all  science  and 
that  to  which  all  science  must  be  referred.  It  is  at  the 
same  time  the  root  and  blossom  of  all  other  systems  of 
thought ;  it  is  that  from  which  all  spring,  and  that  which 
adorns  all,  and  that  which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit 
and  the  seed,  and  withholds  from  the  barren  world  the 
nourishment  and  succession  of  the  scions  of  the  tree  of 
life." 

This    generation    is   wandering    through    the    barren 

reaches  of  aesthetic  decadence,  the  natural  reaction  from 

nearly  a  century  of  wonderful  production.      In 

Decadence 

the  general  lowering  of  the  ideal  atmosphere 
we  seem  to  have  lost  the  sense  of  proportion.  Little 
men  loom  before  the  public  eye  like  giants.  A  meretri- 
cious impressionism  has  taken  the  place  of  inspiration. 
We  endeavour  to  sting  ourselves  into  fresh  sensation. 
"  Poverty  of  inventive  power,"  says  Nauman,  "  ever 
seeks  to  gloze  over  its  shortcomings  by  novel  and  start- 
ling effects."  One  might  say  that  the  art  of  to-day, 
from  the  symphonic  poem  to  the  poster,  has  become 
largely  unresolved  dissonances.  But  this  will  not  always 
be  so.  The  world  of  art,  like  the  physical  cosmos,  must 
have  its  fallow  seasons,  while  the  creative  spirit  slum- 
bers, and  the  new  forces  slowly  gather  for  fresh  fruition. 
This  is  the  natural  and  necessary  alternation ;  the  systole 
and  diastole  of  the  universe. 

The  ideal  can  never  perish.  It  is  the  noumenon  or 
core  of  existence,  the  axis  upon. which  life  ever  moves  to 
higher  and  higher  expression.  Ideals  have  varied  from 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  263 

age  to  age,  but  the  general  trend  has  ever  been  upward. 
Mephitic  vapours  of  materialism  or  formalism  have  at 

times  obscured  it.  but  this  is  only  the   dark- 
Renascence 

ness  before  the  dawn,  the  obscuration  which 

leads  into  the  glory  of  renascence.  The  night  is  to 
usher  in  the  day.  Spring  leaps  up  like  a  diviner  phoenix 
from  the  frozen  ashes  of  the  winter.  Then  shall  arise 
the  new  poets,  with  clarified  perceptions  and  more  puis- 
sant song.  They  shall  stand  upon  the  Mount  of  Vision 
and  look  backward  through  the  aeons  and  forward  into 
the  dazzle  of  eternal  verity.  They  shall  hear  all  har- 
monies, from  the  stupendous  choiring  of  the  planets  to 
the  mystic  palpitation  of  the  aether;  they  shall  unravel 
real  from  unreal,  true  from  false;  they  shall  read  more 
clearly  yet  the  meanings  of  love,  beauty,  life;  and  so, 
with  eyes  turned  toward  the  sunrise,  shall 

"  Catch 

Upon  the  burning  lava  of  a  song, 
The  full-veined,  heaving,  double-breasted  Age." 


INDEX* 


ABBOTT,  Dr.,  22 
ACHILLES,  3 
^ENEID,  192 
AESCHYLUS,  246 
ALDRICH,  T.  B.,  202 
ALEXANDRINE,  67,  151,  152,  157,  205 
ALLEN  and  GREENOUGH,  28,  183 
ALLITERATION,    8,    101,    109,    115- 

117,  120,   122,  137 
AMBROS,  Wilhelm  August,  246 
ANACRUSIS,  29 
ANGLO-SAXON,  6,  7,  8  ;  verse,  78, 

135,  136 

ANGLO-SAXONS,  9,  117 
APTHORP,  W.  F.,  24,  248 
ARIOSTO,  168,  175,  246 
ARISTOTLE,  191 
ARNOLD,  Matthew,  66,  71,  99,  191, 

202,  241  ;  extracts  from  poems  of, 

33,  67,  69,  92 
ARNOLD,  Sir  Edwin,  126 
ARTS  of  sound,  16 

BACON,  9,  99 

BALLAD,    the,    10,    138,    141,    191  ; 

metre,  139,  140 
BALLADS,  ancient,  142-146  ;  modern, 

146-150 
BANIM,  261 
BAYNE,  Peter,  75 
BEATTIE,  160 
BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER,  13,  120, 

207 


BEAUTY  and  power,  242 

BEETHOVEN,  248 

BEOWULF,  192,  194 

BLANK  verse,  9,  12,  66  ;  defini- 
tion of,  209,  213,  237,  239,  240, 
241  ;  Marlowe's,  207  ;  Milton's, 
208  ;  modern,  208  ;  notations, 
214-237;  Shakespeare's,  208 ;  Sur- 
rey's, 206 

BOCCACCIO,  8 

BROWN,  Abbie  Farwell,  131 

BROWNING,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  108, 
i?i,  173,  174,  245 

BROWNING,  Robert,  18,  47,  55,  66, 
86,  96,  97,  108,  114,  160,  179,  191, 
202,  208,  246,  256.  Blank  verse, 
229,  230,  252.  Extracts  from 
lyrical  poetry,  35,  36,  50,  54,  61, 
89,  90,  93,  102,  123,  125,  180, 
185.  Rhymed  couplets,  156 

BRUT,  193 

BURNS,  160,  191 

BURROUGHS,  John,  120 

BYRD,  9,  10 

BYRON,  70,  71,  83,  151,  160,  171, 
176,  191  ;  extracts  from  poems 
of,  65,  84,  85,  161,  177,  179 

CADENCE  correspondence,  104 
CADENCE,    imperfect,    106 ;    perfect 

authentic,  102 

CAESURA,  55,  56,  57,  210,  211 
CAINE,  Hall,  171 


*  All  extracts  from  poems  will  be  found  under  the  names  of  their  authors. 
Subject  classifications  not  made  in  Index  will  be  found  in  the  marginal  notes. 


266 


INDEX 


CAMPBELL,  47,  83,  160 

CAMPION,  13 

CAREVV,  13 

CARLYLE,  240 

CAXTON,  g 

CHAPMAN,  56,  140,  141,  164,  203 

CHAPPELL,  n 

CHAUCER,  8,  9,  10,  19,  117,  135,  152, 

191,    206  ;    extracts   from    poems 

of,  118,  150,  153,  157 
CHRISTABEL,  vii 
CIMABUE,  247 
CLEVELAND,  80,  81,  82 
COLERIDGE,  vii,  48,  52,  66,  71,  99, 

no,  146  ;  extracts  from  poems  of, 

26,  42,69,  112,  147,  181,  183 
COLONNA,  Vittoria,  168 
COMMON  chord,  102 
COMPOSERS,  old,  10 
CONSONANT  groups,  116 
CORNELL,  J.  H.,  27,  28,  244,  246 

CORREGGIO,  247 

CORSON,  Hiram,  23,  65,  75,  99,  100, 
101,  112,  157-160,  163,  170,  208, 

212 
COWPER,  84 

DANIEL,  Samuel,  119,  164 

DANTE,   8,   20,  168,  178,  179,   193, 

194,  204 

DECADENCE,  13,  200,  262 
DENHAM,  Sir  John,  154,  155 
DICKINSON,  Emily,  107 
DIFFERENTIATED  motion,  60 

DlVINA    COMMEDIA,  2O,   193 

DOBSON,  Austin,  68,  184 

DONNE,  164 

DOWDEN,  Edward,  240 

DRAMA,  early  Christian,  195  ;  origin 

of,  194  ;  pastoral,  202 
DRAYTON,    Michael,    79,    118,   151, 

164,  167 


DRUMMOND,  William,  164,  167 
DRYDEN,  13,    19,   20,   95,  99,  154, 

208,  238  ;  extract  from  poem   of, 

155 

ECKERMANN,  244 

ELIOT,  George,  14 

ELIZABETHAN  age,  10,  n,  77 

ELLIS,  A.  J.,  22,  240 

EMERSON,  15,  16,  66,  71,  100,  258, 
262  ;  extracts  from  poems  of,  69, 
104,  257 

ENGLISH  language,  the,  6 ;  litera- 
ture, 8 

EPIC,   the,    190-193,   194  ;    pastoral, 

193 

ERASMUS,  10 
EURIPIDES,  246 
EVERETT,  J.  D.,  16 

FAIRFAX,  Edward,  176,  177 
FEMININE  ending,  49,  64,  65,  107, 

139,  163,  187,  205,  238 
FERGUSSON,  Samuel,  141 
FIELDS,  Mrs.  James  T.,  57 
FLEAY,  238 
FLETCHER,  202,  238 
FRA  ANGELICO,  247 
FRANCK,  Cesar,  248 
FRIDTHJOF  SAGA,  194 

GALILEO,  23 

GASCOIGNE,  George,  120,  210 

GEORGIAN  poets,  86,  160 

GOETHE,  246 

GOLDSMITH,  193 

GOSSE,  Edmund,  20,  77,  80,  82,  83 

GOTHIC,  20 

GRAY,  34,  106,  115,  209 

GREEK  poets,  quotations  from,  2 

GREGORIAN  chaunt,  21 

GREVILLE,  Fulke,  77 


INDEX 


267 


GUEST,  Dr.,  22 

GUMMERE,  Francis  B.,  23,  140 

HARMONY,  132 

HARVEY,  Gabriel,  77 

HAWEIS,  H.  R.,  9,  21 

HAWTHORNE,  15 

HEINE,  258 

HELLENES,  6 

HEROIC  rhymed  couplet,  152-156 

HEROICS,  189 

HERRICK,  13 

HOGG,  James,  51 

HOMER,  3 

HOMERIC  dactylic  hexameter,  181 

HOOD,  Thomas,  39,  108 

HROSWITHA,  196 

HUGO,  Victor,  246 

IAMBIC  verse,  203 
IBSEN,  202 
IDYL,  the,  191 
ILIAD,  the,  192,  194 
INGELOW,  Jean,  42 
INTERLUDE,  the,  198,  199 

JODELLE,  205 

JONSON,    Ben,     13,    119,    175,   199, 


KEATS,  67,  106,  109,  no,  155,  171, 

178,  191,  193,  208,  213,  255,  259  ; 

extracts  from  poems  of,  60,   112, 

160,  227,  251,  254 
KINGSLEY,  Charles,   16,  36,  40,  130, 

182,  183 
KIPLING,  Rudyard,  115,  121,  249 

LANGLAND,     William,     135,      136, 

LANDOR,  191 

LANIER,  Sidney,  viii,  8,  57,  58,  78, 


94,   110,   131,  136,  137,  240,  245  ; 

extracts    from     poems     of,      130, 

248 

LAYAMON,  193 
LEIGH  HUNT,  99 
LELY,  9 
LINUS,  3 

LONGFELLOW,  48,  65,  182,  186 
LOVELACE,  13 
LOWELL,  9,   57,  96,  151,   156,  157, 

I59>  T93>  2OI>  2O7 
LYRICAL  poetry,  4,  190 

MACAULAY,  56,  149,  150 

MADRIGALS,  10 

MAHAFFY,  5,  23 

MALLORY,  9 

MANNYNG,  Robert,  151 

MARLOWE,  9,  119,  152,  200,  207, 
2ii  ;  extract  from  "  Tambur- 
laine,"  214 

MASSON,  David,  97,  98,  189 

MAYOR,  Joseph  B.,  21,  22,  204,  206, 
208,  238 

MELODY,  99 

MEREDITH,  Owen,  258 

METAPHOR,  250 

METRICAL  romance,  191 

METRIC  forms,  189 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  168,  247 

MILLET,  60 

MILTON,  170,  176,  193,  199,  203, 
207,  209,  211,  238,  253.  Blank 
verse,  220-224,  252,  254.  Son- 
nets, 171,  172 

MINSTRELS,  10 

MIRACLE-PLAYS,  195,  197-199 

MITCHELL,  S.  Weir,  70 

MOORE,  65,  83,  84 

MORALITY,  the,  198,  199 

MOZART,  theme  from,  103 

MULLER,  Max,  no,  117,  121 


268 


INDEX 


MUSICAL  instruments,  9 
MYSTERY,  195,  197 

NAUMAN,  Emil,  2,  262 

NEWTON,  23 

NIEBUHR,  Carsten,  2 

NORMAN  influence,  7  ;  invasion,  7 

NORTON,  Thomas,  200 

OCCLEVE,  9 
ODYSSEY,  192,  194 
ONOMATOPOEIA,  101,  120,  121 
OTTAVA  rima,  175,  176 
OVIDIAN  elegiac  distich,  183 

PATMORE,  Coventry,  81 
PEABODY,  Josephine  Preston,  70 
PERCY,  Thomas,  10,  138,  142 
PETRARCH,  8,  20,  168,  204,  246 
PHAER,  81 
PHIDIAS,  246 

PHONETIC  consonance,  101,  114 
PIERS  the  Plowman,  135,  193 
PINDAR,  190 

POE,    127,    128 

POETRY   of   motion,   66 ;    of   reflec- 
tion, 66 

POPE,  154,  155,  238 
POULTER'S  measure,  152 
PRAXITELES,  246 
PROCESSIONAL  hymns,  4 
PUSHKIN,  246 
PUTTENHAM, 66 

RAFF,  248 

RAPHAEL,  247 

RENAISSANCE,    21,    77,    134,    204; 

music  of,  u 
REPETITIONS  and  refrains,  101,  128, 

132 
RHYME,  101  ;  end,  8  ;  head,  8 


RHYTHM,  primary,  27,  32,  64 

RlGVEDA,   2 

RITCHIE,  19 

RlTTER,    10 

ROGERS,  198 
ROMANCE  poets,  134 
RONSARD,  205 

ROSSETTI,  Dante  Gabriel,  171,  174, 
175 

SACKVILLE,  9,  200,  211 
SAGAS,  192 
SAINTSBURY,  20 
SCALDS,  10 
SCHLEGEL,  247 
SCHUMANN,  Robert,  244 
SCIENCE  of  English  verse,  viii,  8 
SCOTT,    47,    70,    71,    83,    151,  160, 

191 

SCUDDER,  Vida  D.,  136,  202 
SEPTENARY,  Latin,  139 
SHAKESPEARE,  9,  13,  201,  209,  237, 

255,    261.     Blank  verse,  99,    in, 

120,     152,     215-220,     251,     252. 

Metrical  effects  of,  12,  48,  52,  8r, 

96,  114,   164,    207,   210,  238,  253. 

Rhymed   couplets,    124,    153,  154. 

Songs,  12,  43-46,  79,  80.    Sonnets, 

165,  251 
SHELLEY,  19,   67,   95,   99,  106,  160, 

171,  176,  179,  202,  208,  259,  262. 

Blank  verse,   226.     Extracts  from 

lyrical  poetry,  26,  8sx  180.    Ottava 

rima,    177.        Spenserian    stanza, 

161,  163 

SMENSTONE,  William,  83,  160 
SHEPPARD,  Miss,  258 
SHORT  couplet,  70,  150 
SHORT  quatrain,  67 
SIDNEY,  9,  77,  164 
SIMILE,  250 
SKEAT,  66,  153 


INDEX 


269 


SONNET,  Elizabethan,  163,  164  ; 
legitimate,  169,  170-172 

SOPHOCLES,  4,  246 

SPENSER,  9,  23,  77,  117,  156,  164, 
193,  202,  203,  259.  Extracts  from 
"Faerie  Queene,"  in,  118,  158, 

159.  Sonnets,  166 
SPENSERIAN  stanza,   67,    109,    156- 

160,  163,  175 
SPOHR,  248 

STRATTON,  Henry  W.,  17 
STRAUSS,  Richard,  248 
SUCKLING,  13,  132 

SURREY,  9,  152,  164,  181,  200,  206, 

211 

SYLVESTER,  J.  J.,  22 
SYMONDS,    John   Addington,    2,  19, 

22,  213    .' 
SWINBURNE,  54,  115,  202,  208 

TASSO,  168,  175,  176 

TENNYSON,  18,  19,  47,  55,  71,  75, 
86,  94,  95,  106,  122,  160,  191,  193, 
208.  Blank  verse,  62,  112,  115, 
232-237,  251,  254.  Extracts  from 
lyrical  poetry,  33,  40,  41,  56,  57, 
63,  68,  69,  72-74,  76,  88,  91,  123, 
126,  128 

TERZA  rima,  178,  179 

THACKERAY,  93 

THAYER,  William  R.,  13 

THOMSON,  160,  193 

TIME,  basic  principle  of  music  and 
verse,  27 

TITIAN,  247 


TOMLINSON,  Charles,  168,  169,  170, 

179 

TONE-COLOUR,  101,  109 
TONIC,  the,  101 
TRAGEDY,  5,  200 
TROPE,  the,  249 

VERSE,  analysis  of,  47,  48  ;  heroic, 
49,  67,  152  ;  motion  of,  61,  68,  76, 
77  ;  notation  of,  31,  32,  33-46, 
139,  183,  214-237  ;  objective,  25, 
189,  190  ;  relation  between  music 
and,  I  ;  subjective,  25,  189,  190; 
unrhymed,  185 

VERSE-FORMS,  old  French,  184 

VIBRATION,  17,  24,  26,  27,  59, 
95,  242,  249,  260 

VICTORIAN  poets,  83,  86 

VOLSUNG  legends,  194 

WAGNER,  15,  125 
WALLER,  13,  80,  81,  82,  154 
WARD,  A.  W.,  195,  196,  199 
WATSON,  William,  184,  187 
WATTS,  Theodore,  169 
WENDELL,  Barrett,  255,  257 
WILLIAM  the  conqueror,  7 
WITHER,  13 
WORDSWORTH,  53,  57,  64,  66,  70, 

71,  97,  99,  106,  no,  151,  160,  171, 

175,    191,    193,    208,    254,    256. 

Blank    verse,    25,    224,    250,  255. 

Extracts  from  lyrical   poetry,    25, 

68,  69,  115,  172,  173 
WYATT,  9,  164 


THE  STORY  OF  MUSIC. 

BY  W.    J.    HENDERSON. 


l£mo,  Ornamental  Cloth  Cover,  $1.00. 


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invaluable  by  musical  students,  and  which  contains  many  dates  and 
notes  of  important  events  that  are  not  further  mentioned  in  the  text. 
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College  Histories  of  Art. 

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A  History  of  Architecture. 

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A   History  of  Sculpture. 

BY 

ALLAN  MARQUAND,   Ph.D.,  L.H.D. 

AND 

ARTHUR   L.   FROTHINGHAM,  Jr.,   Ph.D. 

Professors  of  Archaeology  and  the  History  of  Art  in  Princeton  University. 

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appreciated  by  all  who  work  with  a  class  of  students." 

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"The  illustrations  are  especially  good,  avoiding  the  excessively 
black  background  which  produce  harsh  contrasts  and  injure  the  outlines 
of  so  many  half-tone  prints." 

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"  These  names  are  sufficient  guarantee  for  the  excellence  of  the 
book  and  its  fitness  for  the  object  it  was  designed  for.  I  was  especially 
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CRITIC,  New  York. 

"This  history  is  a  model  of  condensation.  .  .  .  Each  period  is 
treated  in  full,  with  descriptions  of  its  general  characteristics  and  its 
individual  developments  under  various  conditions,  physical,  political, 
religious  and  the  like.  ...  A  general  history  of  sculpture  has  never 
before  been  written  in  English — never  in  any  language  in  convenient  text- 
book form.  This  publication,  then,  should  meet  with  an  enthusiastic  recep- 
tion among  students  and  amateurs  of  art,  not  so  much,  however,  because  it 
is  the  only  book  of  its  kind,  as  for  its  intrinsic  merit  and  attractive  form." 

OUTLOOK,  New  York. 

"A  concise  survey  of  the  history  of  sculpture  is  something  needed 
everywhere.  ...  A  good  feature  of  this  book  —  and  one  which 
should  l)e  imitated — is  the  list  indicating  where  casts  and  photographs 
may  best  be  obtained.  Of  course  such  a  volume  is  amply  indexed." 

NOTRE  DAME  SCHOLASTIC,  Notre  Dame,  Ind. 

"  The  work  is  orderly,  the  style  lucid  and  easy.  The  illustrations, 
numbering  over  a  hundred,  are  sharply  cut  and  well  selected.  Besides  a 
general  bibliography,  there  is  placed  at  the  end  of  each  period  of  style  a 
special  list  to  which  the  student  may  refer,  should  he  wish  to  pursue 
more  fully  any  particular  school." 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

91  &  93  Fifth  Avenue,  NEW  YORK. 


,fn? 


-tf 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


3Dec'62GR 


JAN  2  4  1963 


\ 


C.C 


AN  1  2  '64 


PM- 


LD  21A-50m-3,'62 
(C7097slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  Californij 

Berkeley 


I  .- 


Mr 


